


living for the fall

by gleamingandwholeanddeadly (something_safe), printersdeadly, printersdevils (tuesdaysgone)



Category: Hannibal Extended Universe - Fandom, King Arthur (2004)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Zombie Apocalypse, Amnesia, Anal Sex, Found Family, Head Injury, Knife Throwing, M/M, Motorcycles, Oral Sex, Sharing a Bed, but he'd definitely survive the zombie apocalypse, manual sex, scavenging for supplies, see if you can figure out who he is, special appearance by a character from another film, they all live on a farm, they're basically a motorcycle gang, with round table codenames
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-01
Updated: 2020-11-01
Packaged: 2021-03-09 02:53:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 30,295
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27327637
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/something_safe/pseuds/gleamingandwholeanddeadly, https://archiveofourown.org/users/printersdeadly/pseuds/printersdeadly, https://archiveofourown.org/users/tuesdaysgone/pseuds/printersdevils
Summary: The world has been overrun with zombies the survivors call Shamblers. The living scrounge for food and supplies, and band together in compounds they can hold with relative safety. The Knights are one such group, and one day they find a lone survivor at a grocery store. He's injured and has no memory of how he came to be there. Tristan takes him under his wing and teaches him what he needs to know to survive.
Relationships: Galahad/Tristan (King Arthur 2004)
Comments: 24
Kudos: 107





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This wasn't really intended to be a Halloween fic, but...spooky vibes and all that. Enjoy :)
> 
> <3 L and Deadly

Having arrived first to scout out the abandoned supermarket, Tristan parks his bike and stays still for a moment, listening closely for disturbances in the scattered cars; the trees around the store. No immediate disruptions become apparent, so he slides off the seat and sets his helmet on it. His hand comes up to adjust the strap of his quiver, eyes scanning the boarded windows of the store; the wavering branches and scraps of ragged awning.

It's second nature by now to scan for signs - drag marks, blood spatter. There's nothing, though. He clicks the radio on his waist twice, no verbal comms but the beep will resound with its mate back in the trees. Then, he meanders toward the doors, peering in through a couple of cracks in the wood. The shelves look picked over but still viable. He might as well go in; the rest of the Knights will back him up.

Skirting around, he finds a loose board on the bottom of a door and pries it off, slipping carefully inside and then listening again.

He hears breathing, and his hand tightens on his bow. It's not the wet rattle he expects, but something quick and fearful. Loosing his bow and knocking an arrow, Tristan inches forward out of the doorway, peering into the wreckage of the store; the toppled shelves and displays.

"I won't hurt you if you don't hurt me," he says in a low, even tone. At the same time, he touches the radio again and clicks three times. Hopefully his backup is nearly here.

No movements now, so he inches further forward again, and that's when he glimpses two bright eyes between a fixture, nearly obscured by hair. It's a boy - he thinks - huddled on an empty bottom shelf behind a dusty box of mops. A man, he supposes, though there's something decidedly young about him.

Reluctantly, Tristan lowers the bow. "You living in here?"

He shakes his head, overlong curls flying. Tristan sees a flash of dark red-brown in his hairline; beads tracked down his neck from an injury past.

"You been bitten?"

Another shake. "Fell," he answers, voice raspy with disuse. "Hit my head." Then he swallows. "I think."

"You don't know?" Tristan keeps his voice even, resists glancing over his shoulder at the sound of someone else squeezing through the loose board. The stranger dips his gaze, and Tristan sees that the wound looks ugly, and relatively fresh, amid the wild dark curls.

"Can't remember," he whispers, and then he must catch sight of Dagonet appearing over Tristan's shoulder, because he lurches to his feet, holding up a battered aluminum baseball bat. "Stay away from me!"

"It's just my friend," Tristan soothes. "He's not coming near you."

The stranger steps back, no concern for the noise he's making, seemingly no awareness of what's going on. It's amazing he hasn't been killed.

"Tris," Dagonet hisses, clearly uncomfortable.

"I know, I know." He stands up slowly, glancing around furtively as he follows the newcomer where he's shuffling back amongst the shelves, eyes wide. "It's okay," he tells him quietly, "we're not going to hurt you. We just came to look for medicine."

The kid visibly gulps, and there's a faint tick in his eye that tells Tristan he's struggling to focus. The sudden increase in blood pressure in a recent head injury can't be good for him.

"Look, can we try to help you?" Tristan asks.

"Tris," Dagonet snaps again, "we don't have time for this!"

"Dag, he's alone and he's hurt. Why don't you paint a target on him while you're at it?"

"He'll paint a target on us if we hang around here."

"Go check the medicines," Tristan orders curtly. With a glare, Dagonet goes, shotgun cocked. "Forget him. Do you trust me?" Tristan asks the kid.

"No," he answers, shaking his head and then putting a hand out to steady himself like he regrets it.

"Well, good, then you haven't lost all your brains through that bump on your head. I'm still not gonna hurt you."

"Don't-" jerking at Tristan's movement, the kid weaves, and Tristan closes the distance between them hastily as he crumples: he'd rather he didn't crack his head again. He's light - scrawny under his filthy clothes, and he isn't hard to restrain, until he finally goes limp.

Tristan tuts, cupping his face for a minute, feeling his pulse. When he feels it, slow but constant, he finally holds up his radio. "Lancelot, we could use another hand, we got a survivor."

He hears Lance swear on the other end of the radio. "Bites?"

"No bites. Head injury. Maybe someone thought he was one of them."

"Hang tight, I'll send Arthur in."

"Gotcha." He looks up, seeking Dagonet. He hears the rustling from a few aisles over, and low swearing. "Dag, anything?"

"No. Let's clear out."

They end up meeting Arthur at the door, and he insists on doing a full check on the kid before he lets Tristan carry him back to the grove where they've left the bikes.

"Decided to wait to check his ass for bites until we're back at the farm?" Tristan quips, hoiking the unconscious boy a little higher in his arms: they have a trailer attached to Lancelot's sturdier, broader road hog, usually used to supplies - today for this boy.

"If he was talking, he's probably all right," Arthur admits. And they all know he's right. The sickness moves fast once you're bitten. They've seen it happen so many times at this point.

They load him securely into the trailer and bed him in with the tarps and blankets they have between them to secure him, even going so far as to use the tension straps in it to make sure there's no chance of him bumping loose on the road. His continued unconsciousness isn't good, Tristan thinks, but Arthur is taking it in stride.

"Let's move out," he instructs, "hopefully Vanora will have something ready for dinner when we get home."

The gang fires up their bikes and roars down the cracked highway. The dust plumes up in their wake. Only two Shamblers come out of the woods on their ride back to base. Arthur easily picks them off with his crossbow.

The area around their home base is fairly safe, and regular patrols keep it that way. Not to mention various booby traps rigged up around the joint. They've been here for months now, and Tristan finds himself struggling against getting too comfortable. But the others always tell him he should take advantage of it while he can.

He supposes bringing home strays is getting comfortable. He peers almost obsessively into the trailer as they ride, thoroughly distracted. At the farm walls, built up as much as their efforts allowed over the months with wire and stolen fencing from other sites, Arthur dismounts to open the gate enough for them to zip through single file. He brings up the rear once they're closed up tight again. Then they're parked and home free, and Tristan unclips their sleeping find and carries him inside to where Bors and Vanora are making dinner.

"Take him to a room," Arthur orders, rummaging out their big first aid kit from the pantry.

Tristan deposits his charge onto his own mattress in his room at the back of the house. He stands back. Arthur wastes no time cutting the filthy t-shirt and jeans right off of the skinny kid. He's battered, bruised, even bleeding in places, but none of the distinctive necrosis from a bite: the infection works quickly.

Arthur sighs and goes to work cleaning the head wound. Tying the matted, greasy fall of his hair back from his face as best he can, Tristan cleans the other wounds he can see, and rinses the boy of the grime he can shift. When they finish, they redress him in clean clothes.

Tristan settles down beside the mattress, hands itching for something to do but his attention held by the bird-bone fragility of the man they found. In a few minutes, he hears footsteps, and then Lancelot ducks in with a tray.

"Dinner is served," he exclaims with great aplomb, "and it is largely bean-based, just for a change."

Tristan flips him off, but takes the tray. Lancelot is inspecting their patient.

"Looks a nasty bump, has he woken up at all yet?"

"Not since the supermarket." He'd stirred a few times while Arthur worked on him, but nothing coherent.

"Hmm." A considering noise at that. "He tell you anything?"

"That he didn't trust me," Tristan replies.

"But you've got such a friendly demeanor." He bats at Tristan's hand when Tristan goes to flip him off again. "See, you should run for office."

"Yeah. I'll get right on that, as soon as you find me a government to run for."

"I'll prop up some corpses for you to give your election speech to."

"Yum." Doesn't stop Tristan from shoveling in a few spoonfuls of beans.

Lancelot looks at their sleeping charge. "Another mouth to feed."

"He could be a new brother," Tristan suggests. "If he stays."

"Doesn't look like much of a fighter."

Tristan sighs. "We're Knights because we trained to be," he reminds Lance.

"We're Knights because we needed a coping mechanism," Lancelot snorts.

"We're Knights because we needed someone to watch our backs," Tristan retorts. Then, he sees movement out of the corner of his eye. The kid is finally stirring.

He sets his bowl aside immediately, wiping his mouth and beckoning for a cup of water. Lance moves just as efficiently, used to backing Arthur when one of them needs patched up. The boy from the supermarket blinks, and then coughs weakly.

He takes another sip of the water, then asks, "Where am I?"

"You're in a farmhouse in North Carolina; you've sustained some kind of head injury. You passed out and we brought you home. Remember that?"

"I remember you from the store," the boy says to Tristan with narrowed eyes.

"Good. You remember who you are?"

A hesitation. Too long. Tristan tuts.

"Some bump on the head. Arthur gave you a couple of stitches, and we'll have to keep an eye on you."

"Why are you helping me?" he says mistrustfully.

"Because you're alive, and we'd like to keep you that way."

"Well, me too," he says sourly. He touches at his head like it aches, brows knotted against the tension. His eyes go distant, searching for a brief lull. "I can't remember..."

"Your memory will probably come back as your head heals," Lancelot puts in. "Just relax, it's safe here."

Silence for a moment, and then the boy makes a short, panicked noise, looking around like he's lost something. Tristan half-stands. That makes him startle, and he backs up against the wall.

"Careful, kid," Lancelot says. "You don't want another dent in your head."

Tristan holds his hands out. "We won't hurt you. I swear it." He pitches his voice lower. "What are you looking for?"

"I... I don't remember," the boy repeats, weakly.

"We can go back, if you remember," Tristan promises.

Lancelot gives him an eyebrow, but he ignores him. The kindness seems to go right over the kid's head, anyway. He stays slotted against the dirty, whitewashed wall, pressing himself into the corner like he might melt into it entirely.

Tristan sighs. "Are you hungry?"

Another fleeting glance between them both, and he nods. Tristan sets his own bowl down and moves the tray closer, a fresh bowl of beans and a cup of water. He waits a beat before realizing that the stranger is probably waiting for him to move back, and so he does, leaning away in his chair. He keeps eating, too. No reason to waste calories.

The boy holds out for three more seconds before he snatches the bowl up, eating like he hasn't for days. Tristan exchanges glances with Lancelot again, then sets his half-empty bowl on the tray within reach.

"I'll let you two... get acquainted," Lancelot murmurs, "and tell the others he's awake."

Tristan just nods, content to sit silently. He watches the newcomer eating until he clearly feels sick.

"Water," he murmurs.

Tristan nudges the cup toward him. "There."

The kid sips that a little more cautiously. Tristan can't help but smile.

"Hungry, hm?"

"I don't remember how long it's been since I've had hot food," he murmurs. He swallows. "Found some crackers in the supermarket; a tin of peaches."

"We have those too, if you're partial," Tristan says.

The boy shrugs and keeps eating. "This is fine. Thanks."

Tristan senses he wants to be left alone, but he can't bring himself to go. He doesn't know if this boy can remember what happened to this world. Soon, he's joined by Arthur.

"How are you?" he asks the newcomer.

He looks uncertain. "Who are you people?"

"We're - we go by the names of the Knights of the Round Table. You know who that is?"

The kid nods, slowly. "I...think so. I can't really remember."

"Old legends. A load of knights. We try our best to make good of all this fucking mess. Can you remember what happened? The virus?"

Another shrug.

"Fantastic." Arthur sighs. "You get some rest. You're welcome to stay with us as long as you like." He glances at Tristan. "Let's give the kid some privacy now," he says.

Tristan, for whatever reason, feels reluctant. Maybe it's the way the kid had said no, when Tristan had asked if he trusted them. Now, the boy looks pained again.

"I don't need privacy."

"Do you need sleep?"

He swallows. "Wasn't I just?"

"Unconscious, maybe," Arthur grumbles.

The boy swallows. "I'll stay here and rest."

"If you need anything, come to the kitchen, or just call out," Tristan tells him.

"You're going-?"

"Unless you'd like me to stay."

"Yeah." He nods quickly. "Please."

Tristan shoots Arthur another quick look, and settles back into his chair. "Change of tune," he observes.

The kid narrows his eyes. "You threatened to shoot me," he mutters.

"I said if you hurt me, first," Tristan points out. He watches the boy shift and wriggle, uncomfortable with his many bruises. "How long were you there?"

"I don't remember," he mutters. "My head - it was after my head."

"All right." He bites his lip. "Is there anything you can remember? How old you are? Where you were born?"

"I -" he shakes his head again, gingerly. "I have - not... not much else. My head hurts," he adds in a whisper.

"I'll see if we've got any painkillers," Tristan tells him, standing slowly so as not to startle him. His eyes are uncommonly large, and blue. The trudge to the kitchen to rummage in their medicine box feels grey without them.

He finds some old aspirin and shakes a few pills out. It won't be much, but it's better than nothing. He takes a can of nearly expired soda from one of their raids, too: some sugar will help. Then he returns to the room. "Kid, here you go."

He accepts them, still twitchy, looking around like he's checking everything is where he left it. Tristan momentarily feels a burst of pity: he has no idea where, or who he is.

"You really don't remember anything?" he asks gently. "Wish I knew your name, at least."

"I don't remember," he sounds apologetic, almost. "What's - what's yours?"

"Tristan," he says. "Of the Knights of the Table."

"Tristan," he repeats softly. "Hello, Tristan."

"Hello," Tristan murmurs. Then, he sighs. "You sound British, if that helps any."

"I'm sure it might, normally," the kid laughs sadly.

Tristan sighs and slumps down next to him again. "Want to be a Knight?" he asks.

"A Knight?"

"We've got to call you something. Percival? Galahad? Bedivere?"

The boy chews his lip, looking uncertain. "I don't know."

"Okay, fine. Think it over. You really don't remember anything?"

"I said I don't!"

Tristan sighs. "I don't know where to start, kid."

"Neither do I." He chews on a ragged fingernail for a moment. "Why'd the supermarket look like that?"

"Like what?"

"Trashed."

Tristan tilts his head. "Well... everywhere looks like that now."

The kid's expression goes faraway again. "Why?"

"Because of the Shamblers," Tristan sighs.

"What's that?"

Tristan sighs. "It started a couple years ago, people started to get sick and die. They said it was some sort of a virus, it attacked the brain. And it worked _fast_."

"Everyone - died?" Throat bobbing, his eyes start to move back and forth rapidly, focused on the middle distance as he digests it. The scent of fear is palpable.

"It's not that they died," Tristan murmurs. "It's that they came back after."

"Came back?" His brows draw.

"They're - the old term is zombies, I guess. They live somehow - no one is sure how - but their minds are gone."

The boy's chest has started to rise and fall rapidly. Tristan stops talking.

"That's why - that's what that thing was -"

"You remember one?"

"When I woke up there was someone trying to get at me through a hole in the boards."

"What made it go away?" Tristan murmurs.

"I had the bat - I don't know where it came from, but I just - I just hit it."

"You were already injured?"

"I, I woke up like this, yes. I don't know how I got there."

Tristan nods seriously. "You must have been looking for supplies. The Knights keep this area pretty clear of Shamblers, but there aren't many other home bases near here either."

"Looking for supplies." He sinks back against the wall, looking utterly lost. Tristan can barely even imagine how he's feeling. "I suppose...at least I was alive," he mutters.

"Yes, that's all that matters." Tristan sighs. "I'm sorry you can't remember. We'll just have to hope it comes back as you heal."

The boy nods slowly, and then he looks at Tristan, eyes wide.

"Galahad," he murmurs.

Tristan smiles. "That's a good one. Hello, Galahad."

"Hi - Tristan." His expression goes distant again for a moment. "How many of you are there?"

"There's about a dozen of us, give or take. I'll introduce you as we go along."

Galahad nods. "All right. Maybe later."

Tristan likes being able to call him that now. "How're you feeling?"

"Dizzy," he admits.

"You should rest," Tristan tells him.

He looks reluctant but also quite pale. "I'm afraid I won't remember when I wake up."

Tristan frowns sympathetically. "I'll remind you," he soothes.

"But it might not be enough..."

" _Galahad_ ," Tristan urges. He watches him acknowledge the name; sit with it for a minute.

"You're leaving?" He asks then.

"I should sleep too," Tristan murmurs. It's not quite a confirmation.

"Will you - would you stay with me?"

"Sure, kid," Tristan murmurs. It doesn't feel the least bit unreasonable: he's lost his entire world in the space of a day. Tristan can be kind.

Silently, he retrieves the tatty blanket from the end of the bed and flicks it out over the mattress before kicking off his boots and climbing delicately in. Galahad only startles a little.

"It's okay. Lie down. I won't let anybody hurt you, I promise."

"All right," Galahad finally murmurs. Stiffly, he huddles down against the wall. Tristan gives him his space. They lie facing one another, eyes flicking over one another, the sun streaming in. "Thank you, Tristan," the boy, now Galahad, whispers.

"You're all right now," Tristan whispers back. He watches the blue eyes close over, shaded by long lashes. He thinks he's finally allowing himself to trust a little.

Poor thing, Tristan thinks. It all has to be a complete shock. He watches him drift to sleep with something stirring in his chest.

//

_He wakes to pain; and sparks in his vision. Red, and white, even in the dimness. A throbbing, vicious ache in the side of his head, and when he lifts his hand to touch, it comes away wet with blood. His ears ring, and under the loud thrum of his pulse in his ears, there's something else - some wet rattle, like rasping breaths._

_Unsure where he is, or what's happening, he instinctively scrabbles around for some sort of weapon. And when he opens his eyes, a nightmare greets him._

_All he sees at first is teeth, a horrible rictus grimace. The creature - because it can't truly be called a man - is reaching for him, caught on the shards of glass in a broken automatic door. It's skeletal, putrid fingers fasten around his boot._

_He makes a harsh, distressed sound - not even words, really. And then his hands fasten on the cool metal, and he lashes out before he can stop himself, hitting the thing so hard with the bat that it's jaw smashes and scatters in a shower of bone and gristle. He hits it again, down now, using the floor to leverage the damage. And then he can't stop hitting. He only stops when the hand finally releases his boot; when the gurgling breaths stop. Panting, he drops the bat, and looks fervently around._

_Leaving the bat where it lies, he finds a hiding place behind a pile of collapsed shelves and crawls in._

_His heart pounds, blood running down his neck from his head. He tries frantically to rifle through his thoughts, trying to find anything, anything, that might explain where he is._

_Not only where - who. A rising fear swells in him. The air smells of rotting food, and if he strains to hear, he can make out more of those terrible groaning breaths. He just hopes they're not inside with him. He hopes the door keeps them out._

_At the thought, he scrambles back out of his hiding place and hurries to where the dead thing lies, instinct driving movements he's sure he'd normally shy from. He grabs at the ragged clothing and drags the body up, shoving it back through the door roughly. When it flops out onto the tarmac outside, he shoves the board it shuffled aside back into place. Then he hides again, his foot kicking at the gory baseball bat until it rolls away._

_Head throbbing, he closes his eyes, sweating and shaking where he's crushed between the shelves. He wonders, almost dispassionately, if he's about to die._

_Maybe that would be best. He has no idea what sort of person he is, or what is past was like. Or what hell he's found himself in._

He closes his eyes, and when he opens them again, he's in a bed, four walls around him and a head of dark, stringy hair beside his own on the pillows. Awake, new memories start flooding back along with the horror of the dream - dark eyes steady above a drawn bow. The man who calls himself Tristan. Who calls him Galahad. He'll call himself it too, after all, what else is he going to call himself?

He'll be Galahad, whatever that means, if it means a better chance to survive all this. A plague, his rescuer tells him. The creatures, Shamblers. A quaint name for something so terrifying.

He watches his sleeping bedmate, aware that the sun has set; the house is quiet. His stomach rumbles, and so Galahad sits up, slipping silently off the bed. The room is dark, the only light coming from a weak moon outside. Galahad notices heavy curtains at the window and carefully slips out of the room in the dark. There, he can see a dim light at the end of a long, dark hallway.

Nerves starting to set in, he wishes he'd thought to bring the bat. He puts his back against the wall and slowly creeps down. He thinks it's probably safe; no one here has seemed to wish him harm. But he's still scared. And there's nothing to say those things haven't since infiltrated wherever they are. He remembers the bat, now. Wishes he still had it.

When he's level with the doorway at the end of the hall, he peers through the crack. A man and a woman sit in a kitchen, candles burning, window shades drawn tight. Galahad swallows heavily against the fear that rises in him. They won't hurt him. He can always run. Back to Tristan, who at least seems to be his champion. His Knight, he thinks with a queasy smile. Finally, he swallows, and pushes the door open.

"Hello?" he says tentatively.

The two people at the table straighten minutely, both cradling drinks. Galahad recognizes one of them as Arthur.

"Ah, our guest has awoken."

"Yes, I'm - hungry," he whispers.

"Then I'll feed you."

"Thank you. Uhm - bathroom?"

"Turn around, first door on the right," the woman says. "Take this flashlight."

He accepts it with a murmur of thanks, and goes into the washroom. When he turns on the flashlight, he's confronted for the first time with his own reflection, and it holds his attention. He looks honestly half-dead. Sunken eyes, face half obscured by beard, his hair in wild corkscrew curls around his face. An unfamiliar face beneath it all, eyes blue, a slightly crooked nose, too-prominent cheekbones and a straight mouth above a square chin.

His face feels like it belongs to someone else. He touches it hesitantly, and blinks rapidly to try relieve the sting behind his eyes: he feels utterly helpless. Avoiding his gaze, he finishes in the bathroom with as little light as possible and goes back to the kitchen.

The man called Arthur brings him a bowl and a steaming mug. "Here. Would you like to come sit with us? This is Guinevere."

After a moment, Galahad nods. Guinevere gives him a smile, the sight of it out of place on her angular face. She has long dark hair in a braid down her back, and there's the remnants of blue paint on her neck. She reminds him a bit of Tristan, though the tattoos on his cheekbones are what really sets him apart.

Galahad wishes he'd woken him up. It would feel safer. He takes up the spoon and starts scooping up mouthfuls of stew.

"How's your head?" Arthur asks him, heavy brows drawn in concern, his eyes distractingly blue.

"Still attached," he says with a shrug.

A smile at that, soft in the weathered face. "You've still got a sense of humor then. Does it hurt?"

"Tristan gave me medicine," he murmurs. "It helped a bit."

"I imagine it's worn off. I'll get you another dose." He stands, and Galahad glances at Guinevere.

"Tristan must have taken a shine to you," she tells him mildly, "usually the only thing he talks to unless he absolutely has to is his bird."

"His bird?"

"You haven't met her yet? You will." She smiles. "You got a name, kid?"

"Tristan said - I can be Galahad."

"You can," she agrees, glancing at Arthur.

Arthur bows his chin in a nod. "Of course."

He's still wary, but - they seem decent.

"Galahad, we're going to take care of you," Guinevere tells him.

"What do you...do?" Galahad ventures.

"What do we do?" Arthur looks at Guinevere, and they both laugh. "We survive."

"Good," he stammers. "That's...good."

"It is. Not many jobs going in the apocalypse."

"I can't remember," Galahad murmurs.

"You can't remember?"

He shakes his head. "I lied before...I don't remember anything. Tristan explained to me..." He wrinkles his nose. "About the virus."

Arthur nods. "It will take a little getting used to."

"I'm not sure if I want it to come back," he admits.

"I don't entirely blame you," Arthur says, with a wry smile. "Do you think you would want to try out some weapons soon?" he asks. "Might help with the surviving thing."

"Weapons." Galahad takes a sharp breath. "I have a - a bat."

"Do you? That's good. Long range can sometimes be a bit more handy, but brute force does the job as well." Arthur shrugs. "But we'll talk about that when you're up to full scratch. Eat, relax. You can get some more rest soon."

Galahad nods again. "Thanks," he murmurs.

He watches Arthur go to shake out more pills from a brown bottle. "Here, Galahad. Two doses. One now, one when you wake again."

"Thank you." He takes one obediently with his drink: he'd relish the chance to sleep again even now.

"Go on, finish your food," Guinevere orders softly.

Gratefully, Galahad shovels it in. It's better than the beans from before, though clearly still canned. He doesn't care. It's food. They're already being kind for no reason. He feels almost silly about his nervousness before. But not quite. There's a part of him that stubbornly refuses to trust.

Perhaps it's a holdover from whatever life he was knocked out of. In that case, he's doubly unsure he wants those memories back. At the thought, he feels suddenly exhausted, scraping up the last of his food and then taking his bowl to the sink.

"You seem to have retained basic functional memory," Arthur observes, "that's something."

He sounds professional, like maybe he actually used to be a doctor, or a medic. Maybe he should ask, but he's too tired.

"Thank you, and - goodnight," he murmurs.

"Good night, Galahad," Guinevere murmurs.

He shuffles away, down the dark hall again. Back to the room where Tristan is sat awake, picking at a piece of wood with a carving knife like he's been waiting.

"You stayed," he says, somewhat foolishly.

"I can go if you want." An arched brow accompanies his arched tone.

"No, don't," Galahad murmurs. He sits the glass of water and pill Arthur gave him on a side table and lowers himself back onto the mattress.

Nodding, Tristan makes space for him, and they sit together in the dark for a few moments.

"What're you doing with that?" Galahad gestures to the wooden carving.

"Just...passing time."

"What is it?"

He hands it over, and Galahad notes that it's a little feathery birdlike thing. He turns it in his hands, the deep grooves of the carving pleasing under his thumbs.

"I met Guinevere," he murmurs. "She said you had a bird?"

"I do. Iseult."

"She, uh. Lives here too?"

"She comes and goes. She's hunting right now."

"She's a hunting bird?"

"A falcon, yes."

"I've never known someone with a falcon before," he says automatically, feeling sure that it's correct.

"How do you know?"

"I just...do."

Tristan shrugs. "I'll introduce you when she turns up."

"All right," Galahad murmurs. He hands back the carving.

Tristan considers it, then hands it back. "You keep it. I can make another."

"Thank you," Galahad whispers, tucking it next to his water glass.

"Don't mention it." After a moment, he adds, "Tired, kid? I can put out the light."

It's just a small stump of a candle. Galahad eyes it and asks thoughtfully, "So light is bad?"

"The ones with eyes still see it, and the others follow."

"So blackout shades."

Tristan nods. "Or plywood. Something like that. You'll learn, Galahad."

Galahad hadn't noticed the windows were mostly boarded, though the drapes still hang in front of the ones in this room. He sighs and allows himself to stretch back out on the mattress. "How long have you been here?"

"Hm. How long." Tristan visibly seems to count in his head. "About six months."

"Is that good?"

"It's very good. Before that we spent weeks looking for somewhere safe."

Galahad shivers a little, trying to hide it.

"Don't worry. This place is good. We have water, and there's a vegetable patch, and some cattle. It's the best place we could have landed."

"All right," he murmurs, watching Tristan settle back down next to him. Then he has a thought. "Is this your room, Tristan?"

"Uh, when I sleep in here, I suppose."

"Sorry," Galahad murmurs.

"Don't be, I brought you in here."

"Yeah," Galahad murmurs. "Why did you?"

"I just...I found you, I want to try to help you."

Galahad looks down at his lap; the strange clothes he woke up in. "I'm grateful."

Tristan makes a noise of acknowledgment, and settles down next to him. "You don't have to be. You'd have been okay. I saw that Shambler you'd had."

Galahad shivers again. "Yeah. That."

"Scary the first few times. You get used to them."

Galahad can't imagine it. "How many people - are there others like us? Not here?"

"That's a harder question to answer," Tristan murmurs, looking up at the dark ceiling. "We've seen folks here and there but honestly, we avoid them."

"No...communications?" Galahad asks.

"Some here and there. Nothing that doesn't sound like a trap."

Galahad huffs. "Great."

Tristan sighs. "Sorry, kid." He pushes a fall of curls out of Galahad's face, his hand there and gone before Galahad can flinch. "Go to sleep."

"You're -?"

"Yes, I'll stay."

Galahad is too grateful to question further. They settle back down slowly. Galahad listens to Tristan's even breathing. He seems completely unshakable, calm to Galahad's fearful. He wonders if Tristan can hear his frantic heartbeats. He can feel them in his throat.

"Okay?" Tristan asks in the dark.

"Just...mind racing."

"It's a lot to take in. I know it's hard to trust us but we'll - we'll look after you." He says it so gently that it's hard to resist.

"Thank you," Galahad says, voice hoarse.

"It's nothing," Tristan murmurs. He gives him an encouraging smile, the marks on his cheeks moving with it. Galahad reaches to touch one and then catches himself.

"Sorry."

"It's all right," Tristan says. "People always ask about them."

"What are they?"

"Reminders," is all Tristan says.

Galahad nods. "Maybe you can give me some someday."

Tristan just sighs. "Maybe."

"I misspoke?"

"No," Tristan replies.

Galahad frowns. "Then what?"

"You're prettier than me, that's all. Don't need any tattoos."

"Pretty." Galahad swallows. That isn't how he felt, looking at his sunken cheekbones in the mirror. "Can't even see my face."

"Not much of it, this is true," Tristan says easily. "We've got some batteries, and some clippers. I can sort you out tomorrow."

"Oh," Galahad says gratefully.

"Your hair is nice though," Tristan murmurs, "maybe just a trim."

"I'll let you do what you think is best," Galahad offers.

That makes Tristan smile again. "Right now I think we should sleep," he whispers.

Galahad shifts, fidgeting. "You're probably right."

"But?"

"Hard to stop thinking." He swallows, because thinking easily slides into 'panicking'.

Tristan doesn't comment, but he reaches out and lays his palm across Galahad's chest. The contact startles a breath out of Galahad, and he flinches back, but Tristan hushes him gently.

"It's okay, I won't hurt you. Just feel me. I'm here with you. I won't let anything happen to you, pup."

His voice is soft and even. Galahad folds his own hand over top and presses, closing his eyes. Tristan keeps the pressure firm.

"You're not alone," he tells Galahad softly, "I won't let you forget."

Galahad nods. He keeps his eyes tight shut. And he breathes, and counts, and breathes. Eventually, the dark comes up and swallows the next numbers. This time, the dreams don't follow.

Tristan brings him food the next morning to wake him, and Galahad looks around the little room in the dim light that filters through the gaps in the boarded windows. The haze of pain from his head injury has increased a bit more overnight.

He squints even in the muffled light and takes the painkiller Arthur supplied him with the night before.

Tristan comes over to lay a hand on his brow. "Bit of a fever," he observes. Bending closer, he inspects the bump on Galahad's head. "I think we need to cut your hair, just make sure we can keep this clean. Okay?"

Galahad nods. "Eat first?" he whispers.

"Yeah, you finish up, I'm gonna go get you some antibiotics."

Galahad watches him leave. He's not sure why he hates the sight. It's the trust thing again, maybe.

He concentrates on spooning oatmeal into his mouth, trying to ignore the way that chewing makes his temples throb. Eventually, he sets the bowl aside and reaches instead for the carved bird, turning it in his hands. It's prettier in the light, fine-grained wood. Smooth, but with the flat grain of a fresh carve. He closes his eyes and breathes through the throb. Opens them again to the sound of his name a few minutes later: Tristan, with a pair of clippers and a little orange cylinder of meds.

"Pill first," he says.

Galahad takes them obediently, and then comes to sit on a milk crate that Tristan pulls out in lieu of a barber's chair. He throws an old sheet over his shoulders for a cape. The buzz of the clippers makes Galahad jump. Tristan squeezes his shoulder for a moment.

"I'm fine," it comes out a little harshly, and he bows his head in apology.

"All right. Hold still for me," he murmurs.

Galahad does, shoulders hunched. Tristan starts with his beard. He's gentle, methodical. Galahad closes his eyes and lets him hold onto his chin without a fuss. He moves where Tristan directs him.

Then, he starts on the matted curls. For those, he uses scissors to snip the mats free. "I wonder where you've been," he murmurs to Galahad, "obviously nowhere with a comb."

"No idea," Galahad mutters.

"Here now," Tristan says softly, running the clippers behind his ear.

Galahad holds still through that and all the other ticklish parts. When they're done, Tristan brushes the hair off his shoulders and picks the sheet off him carefully.

"He has a face!"

Galahad wrinkles his nose at him.

"Want to see?"

Galahad considers, then nods. Tristan brings him an only slightly broken hand mirror and hands it to him with a small flourish. Galahad doesn't look much better than last night, though he does look less disheveled.

"It'll do," he murmurs. "Thank you."

"It's okay. Now let me look at that wound."

Galahad peers at that in the hand mirror too. It's an ugly gash, already glistening with a few stray beads of blood again.

"I need to have Arthur stitch it, I think."

"Great," Galahad mutters.

"You will be if it festers."

"Can't you do it?"

"It won't be pretty."

"I don't care, I let you do my hair."

"If you like," Tristan sighs. "You don't want Arthur to assist at all?"

"No," Galahad shrugs.

Tristan studies him thoroughly. "You'll start to trust them, when you've settled in a little," he promises. "I'll go get the kit."

Galahad just nods again. While he waits, he listens distractedly to Tristan talking to other people, turning the carved bird in his hands.

"You can meet her later," Tristan offers when he returns.

Her. Iseult, Guinevere said. "I'd like that."

"Good." He hands Galahad a bottle of liquor.

"What's this for-?"

"This is going to hurt."

With a grimace, Galahad takes a draw on the neck of the bottle, only coughing slightly. He's apparently no stranger to drink.

"More than that," Tristan instructs, and when he's satisfied with a couple more gulps he takes the bottle back. He pours some onto a cloth then tucks it away on the night stand. The sting of the cloth against his head still makes Galahad suck in air through his teeth.

"Do you need something to bite down on?" Tristan murmurs.

"No, I'm okay."

"Then I'm starting."

Galahad closes his eyes and bares his teeth against the first pinching sting. He doesn't say a word, though, but he counts silently. Each slow, hot press of the needle. Five stitches. It barely takes any time at all, really. But it _hurts_. He's panting by the time it's over. Then Tristan is cleaning away the fresh blood and making soothing sounds.

He kneels down by Galahad's feet. "Okay?" He murmurs.

Galahad nods slowly. "Will be when my head stops spinning."

"Stay sitting down then."

"Okay." He closes his eyes, grunting at another throb.

Tristan squeezes his knee. "You all right?"

"Just...I think I'm not used to being injured," he sighs.

"No, maybe not."

Galahad sighs. "Can we take a walk? Maybe fresh air -"

"Yeah, okay." Tristan smiles. "Sure."

He stands and offers Galahad a hand up. Then he leads him down to the kitchen. This time, there are several different people sitting around the scarred tabletop.

"Everyone, formal introduction - this is Galahad."

Galahad nods tightly. He tries not the flinch at the chorus of greetings in return, Arthur and Guinevere among the group of unfamiliar faces.

"Dagonet and Gawain," Tristan gestures between two young men. They both raise their hands in greeting before Tristan moves on to a small mountain of a man, and a woman with strawberry blonde hair. "This is Bors and his wife, Vanora." His point goes to another man with dark curls. "And this handsome devil is Lancelot."

"I remember Lancelot," Galahad murmurs.

"You sound pleased," Lancelot chuckles.

"I'm just glad I'm not forgetting anything else," Galahad replies. 

"So am I," Arthur puts in.

Wringing his hands, Galahad bows his head. "Thank you all for your hospitality, and for the clothes, and medicine."

"Don't worry, you'll be pulling your weight some other time when one of us needs it," Lancelot replies.

"Of course," Galahad nods, because what else can he say? He's not sure what kind of people just accept a stranger into their midst like this. Perhaps it's more the circumstances. They don't look scary, all arrayed like this. And especially not with Tristan by his side, who's arguably the scariest.

"Anyway," Tristan puts in now, "I'm going to show Galahad round the farm."

"Good idea," Arthur says. A series of nods and waves accompany them out.

In what looks like a mud room, Tristan hands Galahad the only thing he's recognized so far: the boots he was wearing when he woke up. They're broken in and fit like a glove. Not like his borrowed clothes, old fashioned and smelling of must, oil stained jeans and the Henley style shirt moth-eaten and too big. Still, it's better than nothing. No one else had looked much different. Though, he remembers yesterday they all seemed to be wearing armor of some variety. Leather, maybe.

When they round the corner of the house and he sees the open barn full of bikes, he understands why. "You all have one-?"

Tristan nods. "Easiest way to get around, good gas mileage. The farmhouse has a tank, we scrounge what we can when we go out."

"A tank?"

"A gas tank?" Tristan raises a brow at him, scratching idly at his neck.

"Oh, right." Galahad bites his lip, feeling slow and stupid. The sunlight hurts his eyes.

Tristan sees him squinting and herds him gently into the barn. Inside, Galahad is startled by the presence of a cow.

"I told you we had animals," Tristan teases him gently.

"I - yeah." Galahad stares, trying to reconcile the gaps in his mind - he knows what a cow is. He had momentarily forgotten their existence, though. "God, they're big."

Tristan nods. "That they are. This one is called Toffee." He touches Galahad's wrist. "Want to pet her?"

Turning pink, Galahad looks down at the floor. "I'm not a kid," he mumbles, but he still reaches out with his hand flat to touch the wet, velvety muzzle.

Tristan doesn't contradict him, but he looks like he disagrees a bit.

"I feel like one though," Galahad allows tiredly.

"Ready to keep walking?" Tristan asks.

"Yeah." Galahad hesitates only a moment, stroking Toffee's forehead, smiling at the furrowed hair there. The cow sniffs amicably at his shirt. He'll come back later, maybe. He wanders after Tristan, surprised when a few dogs come running to them, begging to be scratched and patted, tongues lolling.

"The animals were all here when we found the place," Tristan supplies, "we couldn't get rid of them. There's a couple of horses too. The dogs bark when the Shamblers are near the fences."

"That seems...helpful?"

"Sure, though it means more supply runs - feeding them all isn't easy."

"How far do you go for supplies?"

"As far as we need, though sometimes it's not easy. Thankfully there's a few other farms around here and a quad, we can cut across the fields when we need to, no main roads."

"Do you plant things?"

"Yeah, there are fields and an allotment with veggies, though none of us really know much about it. We're learning though." He points. "It's just around here. Want to go see?"

"Yeah, I'd like that."

He follows gamely along behind Tristan, who stops suddenly and lets out a long, low whistle. Out of the endless sky, a shape like an arrowhead emerges. Galahad manages not to flinch when it darts straight at them. He thinks for a moment Tristan catches it, but he sees then that the kestrel on his arm has landed. She fluffs her wings once, then dips her head. This must be Iseult.

"Hello, beautiful girl," Tristan greets, stroking her white breast. "Iseult, this is Galahad," he murmurs.

Hesitantly, Galahad raises a hand to her, stroking down the same patch of white feathers with one knuckle. "Hello."

She makes a funny little harrumphing noise and tilts her head to inspect him more thoroughly. Again, Galahad is impressed at himself for not flinching when she hops onto his outstretched arm, claws sinking in through the fabric.

"Ow," Galahad mutters on a laugh.

"It's not as bad when I have my leathers," Tristan laughs knowingly.

"Is she always so friendly?"

"This is unusual," Tristan murmurs. "Though she's still making up her mind, I think."

"Fair enough." Galahad scratches her chest again lightly, watching her chatter at the contact. He's never been so close to a large bird before. She's cat-size at least. And her beak and claws are wicked. Still, she seems content enough simply to look at Galahad, gaze measuring.

Eventually, Tristan transfers her to his shoulder. "Come on then, I'll show you the rest." And he takes off again across the field, Galahad trailing.

It does seem that they've essentially continued working the farm in the capacity they can - there's vegetable rows in the garden, and drying hay for winter feed in a corrugated iron shed, a number of farm cats skulking around, and even a silo filled with fermenting feed.

"It's as we found it," Tristan tells him, "but it has its own eco-system and it helps us out too."

"So who's in charge of this part?" he asks.

"We all are, we rotate." He pets Iseult absently. "Vanora is the best at it, really. The rest of us are labor."

"You seem good with the animals."

"Yes, that's the area I like most," Tristan admits.

Galahad smiles helplessly. "Must be why you're so comfortable with me."

"Yes, pup, I agree."

They exchange tentative smiles. Galahad thinks there must be a reason he feels so comfortable with Tristan. He'd think they'd met before, if evidence didn't suggest otherwise. Tristan, after all, is not suffering from amnesia.

Galahad sighs to himself as they wander. It's a pretty spot, and he sees the things they've done to make it safer. The fencing around the main farm is high and sturdy, with the animals all contained within.

"We have to ride the horses to exercise them, because we can't let them graze in the fields unattended," Tristan explains. "There's only two but we didn't have the heart to leave them."

"I like to ride," Galahad murmurs. He has no idea how he knows.

Tristan glances at him. "That's good. The rest of us are better with a bike between our legs. Want to try now?" he asks.

Galahad nods. The horses both trot over at another of Tristan's whistles. Galahad smiles immediately, heart surging when the chestnut stallion butts it's great head into his chest at once, nickering softly. He strokes the soft cheek while Tristan strides over to a shed for tack.

"What's he called?" Galahad asks, kissing the white diamond of fur on the beast's snout.

"Hank," Tristan answers. "Their names are on their stalls in the barn."

"Hank," Galahad doesn't know why it amuses him.

"Yup." Tristan grins and hands him a bridle. He slips it on automatically. It's not long before he has the horse saddled entirely, his hands moving of their own accord. He can feel Tristan watching. "Well, you remember that," he says approvingly.

"So I know horses. Still a lot of blanks up there."

"That's okay. It'll come back over time. Probably." He watches Galahad swing himself up into the saddle, mounting the grey horse, who he calls Shadow.

"Where can we ride, if the fields aren't safe-?" he somewhat fears the answer.

"Just follow me."

Galahad nods. "All right."

Tristan leads him around the side of the farmhouse and down the gravel lane. Curious, Galahad keeps pace. A quick turn leads them through a cut clearing and onto what Galahad can eventually identify as an abandoned airstrip, fully fenced except for the gate they go through.

"An airstrip," Galahad observes stupidly.

Tristan smiles. "Race you?"

"All right," Galahad nods. He watches Tristan, seeing the way he leans forward and tapping the chestnut with his heels in response.

They pick up pace, and then start to gallop. Galahad feels an immediate sense of ease. A smile starts to pull at the corners of his mouth. The chestnut moves powerfully under him. Galahad feels the wind flatten his oversized shirt against his body.

He glances over at Tristan, keeping pace. Tristan shoots him a grin. At the end of the strip, they wheel and return. Galahad can't help but whoop, feeling bright and alive for the first time since he woke up. Tristan grins again.

In the rush, Galahad nearly ignores the blur of movement out of the corner of his eye. Iseult is flying with them like a shot. And beyond her, along the fence lines, a staggering shape. His hands clench on the reins, and the chestnut slows. Then he halts, gaze dragged along by the figure of the creature.

Tristan wheels around when Iseult screeches. "Galahad-?"

He takes in the tableau in a split second, and in the next second his bow is off his back, an arrow flying toward the Shambler. Galahad watches in detached fascination as the creature falls. A single perfect shot. From horseback. Through a fence.

When he looks, Tristan has another arrow nocked, focus never wavering even when his horse judders. But there's no more motion, no more sound. Iseult swoops again, giving an single rough caw.

Slowly, Tristan lowers his aim. He dismounts in a smooth motion and tosses his reins to Galahad, then he goes to retrieve his arrow. When he strides back through the unkempt grass, Galahad watches him.

"Can you teach me to do that?"

"Sure, pup," Tristan says easily. Then he gestures. "A smile! Definitely, then."

Galahad hadn't been aware he was smiling. Now, he blushes. "Let's get back," he mutters.

Tristan nods. He's faintly smiling too. He hoists himself back up onto his horse and they head back toward the farm. This time, they both keep a keen eye about them, but all seems well. Galahad's heart is still up the whole way back to the yard. But all seems still, and when they clatter to a stop by the pasture, Tristan holds out his wrist for Iseult and murmurs something to her before releasing her back up into the sky.

"What did you tell her?" Galahad asks.

"To patrol," Tristan replies, swinging off of his horse and starting to strip the tack. Galahad follows suit.

"So when she appeared then- she was warning you?"

He nods. Galahad is suitably awestruck.

"That's amazing. How did you train her?"

"I've raised her from a chick. I had her long before all this started. It's complicated." Galahad just nods. Still, his disappointment at not hearing the full tale must how, because Tristan smiles. "You'll hear it soon enough, pup."

"All right."

Once they have undressed the horses, they quickly scatter some feed for the various dogs and cats around and then head inside to clean up. The house is quiet, and Tristan glances at a board in the kitchen. "Bors and Lancelot and Gawain went out on patrol."

Galahad studies the same board, slate and scrawled with chalk. He sees a chore list too, and what looks like a supply wish list, scrawled in different hands. One of them says 'a tiara', the next, 'antibac'.

"The tiara is more likely," Tristan says dryly, seeing where he's looking.

That makes Galahad sigh. "Should we go back to the place you found me?"

"Go back? Why?"

"You didn't really have a chance to raid it, you were too concerned with me."

"Perhaps another time." Looking him over, Tristan goes to get him a glass of water.

"It still runs?" Galahad watches him turn the tap.

"Well water. We have a generator for the pump."

"You got lucky..." Galahad bites his lip. "I got lucky."

"Agreed on both counts."

"Thank you." Galahad bows his head. "I'd be dead without you."

"There's that chance, yes." He shrugs. "But you killed the other one."

"Yeah," Galahad murmurs.

"Maybe you'd have made it," Tristan continues.

"I was afraid," Galahad murmurs.

"I'm always afraid."

"Bullshit," Galahad murmurs.

"It's not." He leans against the counter, the picture of ease. "If I weren't afraid out there, I'd do something careless, and I'd be dead."

"You don't seem it."

"We don't all show it, I suppose."

"Suppose not." Galahad sighs. "I think I always do."

"I'm sure not always."

Tristan smiles at him when he glances up. Galahad smiles back small.

"My turn to make lunch," Tristan says.

"Oh. Can I help? Or do you want me to stop following you around?"

"No, you can help."

Galahad goes to wash his hands. "Tell me what to do."

He ends up chopping and sautéing potatoes and onions to add to some kind of a hash, which Tristan cooks up in a big skillet and then portions carefully into bowls.

"The only thing we've managed to grow in any numbers," he chuckles to Galahad, then he takes a radio off the wall and clicks it a few times - must be the signal for food.

"Well, it's better than nothing," Galahad muses.

"My thoughts exactly."

He shoos Galahad into a chair as people start filtering into the big kitchen. Galahad finds himself trying to shrink into it slightly. They're a lot, all at once. Even with the group that went out still missing. Still, they don't seem overly invested in conversation. He listens to them quietly tease one another, or have half-shorthand conversations about farm matters, and eats his meal. He feels hungrier than he has any right to. He must be out of shape, if one ride makes him that hungry.

Then he frowns and it makes the wound in his hairline strain, and he remembers: he's probably just weak. He may not know anything much, but he knows he hates that. Eating will help. Maybe some more sleep.

He sighs at the thought. Maybe he should try to get to know some of the others instead. But it feels like hard work.

While he's musing, one of them comes to sit by him. "You look like you're either thinking big thoughts, or no thoughts."

"Not sure." He glances up.

It's Dagonet, flipping his chair around and leaning on the back. He's intimidating, with strong features and a keen gaze. "That'll be big thoughts then."

"Maybe. I don't like being so out of sorts."

"An understatement, I reckon."

"I'm trying not to be angry. I have a lot to be grateful for right now."

"A lot to be upset about too."

"No more than the rest of you," Galahad raises his eyebrows.

"But we do have the benefit of memories."

"I'm happy for you if they're mostly a benefit," Galahad says skeptically. "It sounds like things have been terrible for a long time now."

"I suppose they have." He shrugs expressively. "Saw you riding earlier, you're good."

"Thanks," Galahad looks down at his bowl.

"Ever been on a bike? That you can remember, of course."

"Not that I can remember, but I can't remember riding a horse either."

"Let me know if you want to try, I'm what counts most as a mechanic around here."

"Is there a spare?"

"Not if the ladies both ride their own, but we don't all go out together very often. You could always double up with Tristan," Dagonet suggests casually.

"I suppose so."

He's not offended. He really doesn't know whether he could ride. He'll try, if it means he can be useful.

The others quiz him a little then; Bors wants to know if he saw any soap in the mart, Arthur wants to see the stitches Tristan did. Galahad can't answer the first but submits himself to inspection.

"Not bad," Arthur murmurs approvingly. He glances up at Tristan and nods.

"I'm not much of a seamstress," Tristan says.

"No one is expecting pretty," Arthur says.

"That's where you're wrong," Guinevere laughs. She gives Galahad an appreciative once over that makes him laugh too.

"It's just the haircut," he insists.

"Trust me, it is not," Vanora puts in, causing Bors to look faintly outraged. Galahad feels some heat rise to his cheeks.

"Tristan, you have brought temptation into this house," Lancelot chuckles.

"Do I look sorry?" Tristan replies, bowl and spoon held lazily in one hand as he leans against the counter.

"I'm certainly not," Lancelot shrugs.

"It seems you have the pick of the bunch," Arthur intones, sounding amused.

Galahad glances at Dagonet for his reaction. "You're pretty but I like mine with tits," Dagonet says reasonably.

"Fair enough," Galahad murmurs. Finally, he risks a glance at Tristan.

He's still smiling, looking unconcerned. Galahad looks back down at the table. He's not sure what he expected. His head is pounding.

"I'm sorry to be unsociable," he murmurs, "I think I need to rest?"

"Of course," Arthur murmurs, while Lancelot complains, "You embarrassed him, Dag."

"I mean, I'll take one for the team if it'll make him feel better," Dagonet says gallantly, to a few chuckles.

"Thanks for the offer," Galahad chokes out. "I'll pass."

"Oh, you all set me up for rejection-!" He pouts, theatrically. Galahad glances at Tristan again.

This time, his eyes are on Galahad, following as he rises from the table. He sets his bowl down and picks up the med kit again. "I'll come clean that incision again before you sleep."

Galahad wants to curl his lip: hard to find time alone at the end of the world, it seems. Still, he just shrugs and waits for Tristan.

"Don't let them embarrass you," he murmurs when they round the corner into Tristan's room.

"It's fine, I'm not."

"You _are_ the prettiest one here," Tristan replies.

"Shut up," Galahad sighs.

"I will not." Tristan sets the med kit down and steps close to touch Galahad's crown.

Galahad bows his head to it, looking down at their feet. He feels the cool sting of alcohol, then Tristan's hands leave him.

"You're all right. I'll leave you alone now."

"Thanks," he mutters. He catches the tail end of Tristan's smile as he turns away.

He fidgets a little. As soon as the door is closed, he regrets not asking him to stay, but he tries to curb it as he climbs into bed and pulls the ratty comforter up, one hand sliding into his pocket to dig out the carved falcon. He cups it gently in his palm and closes his eyes. With the pounding in his head, sleep comes quickly.

_Dreams follow. Dreams of running, and Tristan shooting arrows through the trees. His smile, and the flash of wings. Galahad isn't sure if he's running from him or toward him. He just stands and watches. Galahad only catches glimpses of him through the trees, and then suddenly Tristan is before him, whittling something where he's knelt in the grass._

_Galahad sinks down beside him. "What are you making?"_

_Tristan holds it up, and Galahad sees himself carved from the pale wood._

_"Why are you carving me?" Galahad whispers._

_"So I can keep you," Tristan says, smiling to himself._

_"Keep me," Galahad echoes._

_Tristan looks up at him. "Can I?"_

_"Yes," Galahad says, quietly. He feels it resonate through him. The hawk screeches again._

_Galahad turns to the sky to see Iseult descending. She lands on his wrist. When he looks into her eyes, he thinks he can hear singing._

_He stares into the golden depths. Distantly, he can hear his name. Suddenly, he feels he's looking into Tristan's eyes instead. Like he's being pulled into them. Like being enveloped in warmth. In gold; slipping into a pool of it._

Galahad sighs. He's suddenly aware of the mattress under his back; ambient noise. He stirs, stretches. The light in the room is a soft dawn blue, not quite dawn. Tristan is in the bed beside him.

Galahad looks at him for a long time, hair tangled and long, his face relaxed in sleep. He's not pretty, Galahad thinks dizzily. He's beautiful. The thought strikes him as normal, for him, and that's interesting. Getting to know himself is nearly as difficult as resituating himself in this new world. At least this information doesn't feel distressing. Inconvenient though, he supposes. Even though Tristan doesn't seem bothered about being close to him.

But... perhaps it wouldn't be appropriate for Galahad to consider. He just can't _help_ it. He sighs at the thought. He'll have to be careful. For now though, he can look, just for a while.

And he likes looking. Tristan is shirtless beside him, covered in unusual, abstract tattoos. Galahad wishes he knew more about them. He knows his own skin is pale and pristine. He bites his lip to curb the impulse to touch. Looking is enough.

He sighs; closes his eyes. Now he can picture them inside his mind, too. Maybe he'll dream about them next time.

But no more dreams visit him through his next dozing sleep. He's almost sorry. Tristan rousing him feels like a reward.

A gentle hand squeezes his shoulder. Galahad gazes at him for a few long moments.

"Tristan," he mumbles.

"Good morning, Galahad. Would you like to learn archery?"

"Yes, please," he whispers.

Tristan smiles. "Good. And how about a shower?"

"My stitches -" he objects.

"Don't worry, you can keep your head out."

"Show me then," Galahad says gamely. "Uh - clean clothes?"

"I'll bring you some when you've cleaned up."

Galahad nods and heads back to the bathroom. Tristan has given him a towel, so he just shuts the door and tries to figure out the shower. The water pressure is low but workable. The water is nearly warm, too, and there's soap. Galahad washes carefully, finding some old wounds that he wishes he remembers. The water stings, but it still feels good, especially when he sees water running grey with dirt down the plug hole.

He scrubs harder, ducking his head around the water spray. Finally when he's feeling markedly better, he gets out and brushes his teeth with one of the many packaged toothbrushes that are in a basket amongst supplies of other such items - tampons and q-tips and soap. It Galahad smile to see: they must have struck lucky in another supermarket, or maybe a few over time. It's an interesting life, it seems.

Feeling markedly better, Galahad wraps his towel securely around his waist and makes his way back out to the hall. Tristan's door is ajar and he slips back in.

"Hello," Tristan greets, without looking up from what he's doing, "I put you some clothes on the bed."

"Thanks," Galahad murmurs. He drops his towel and moves to the bed, pulling on a pair of tatty shorts and then examining the crew neck. He glances at Tristan after he does it. Not so determinedly studying his carving now. Galahad wonders if he's imagining the faint color on his cheeks. He pulls on the top and jeans without comment, though.

These fit slightly better, and he wonders if Tristan's gone searching. The thought makes him smile. He's been looking, then. At least that much. It makes Galahad's ears hot in turn to think about it. Yet it doesn't make him want to leave Tristan's side.

"Thanks for the clothes," he murmurs.

"You look good," Tristan replies. "More comfortable."

"I feel better for being clean."

"It's a luxury we all make sure to appreciate," Tristan agrees.

"Truly." Picking at a loose thread on his sleeve, Galahad considers. "It's good here," he murmurs.

"It's better now."

Their eyes catch like an accidental brush with Velcro. Galahad gives him a crooked smile. "What do we do today?" he murmurs. "Besides archery?"

"I'll take you on a patrol."

"On your bike?"

"If that's okay."

"Yeah, that's okay. Uh, Dagonet offered to help me figure out if I can ride, too."

"He's the best rider of us all," Tristan says, agreeably.

"I'd rather go with you," Galahad murmurs.

Tristan smiles at that. "That's okay."

He finally puts the new carving away. Galahad can't help but wish he hadn't, he likes to watch him. But, he's standing, and Galahad supposes they're going outside.

"You feel okay?" Tristan checks as they walk.

Galahad nods. "M'ok. Good enough. Less dizzy."

"Less dizzy isn't not dizzy, we'll not get you riding a bike unless it's with one of us yet, okay?"

Galahad nods in agreement. He _wants_ to ride with Tristan, truth be told.

"Good. First, archery."

They go to another small shed by the side of the house that holds weapons and targets.

"You really have it set up here."

"We're organized. There's too many of us to be otherwise."

"I see that." He takes the bow Tristan hands him, and the quiver of arrows. "Where did you get these?"

"We scrounge, we trade."

"Incredible."

Tristan shrugs, wordless all of a sudden. Galahad wonders if he's embarrassed. He's not sure why he would be. Galahad chances a smile at him and Tristan smiles back, gesturing him into the courtyard.

"Soon enough I'll get you on moving targets, but for today we'll start with the boards."

The targets set up are wooden cable drum heads, pockmarked with arrow wounds and painted with red circles. Galahad nods and listens to Tristan's explanation of where to hold, where to nock the arrow.

"Lift your elbow, loose your hold or you'll cut yourself when the bowstring snaps back, keep your wrist out." He looks over Galahad's form, nudges his feet a bit further apart. "Now relax, and draw back, and loose. Don't wait too long."

Galahad tries it, feeling the tension in his body release with it. The arrow overshoots the target and hits the barn above it.

"Not bad," Tristan murmurs. "Try a bit more tension in your forearm, you won't pull the shot so much."

Galahad does as he's bid, and this time the shot hits the target. It's still high, and Tristan steps in, taps gently on a spot on the bow.

"This is your sight. Use this next time. One eye closed may help."

Cheeks burning, Galahad steels himself, doing as he's bid. Tristan stands close, watching his hands. The arrow flies truer this time.

"Good," Tristan murmurs. "Now do it again without holding your breath."

Galahad nods. This time, he hits the right-hand-side of the board.

"Good," Tristan says.

"That wasn't good," Galahad grumbles. "You show me?"

"It was good. You got the target, that's better than most people do their first time." Tristan takes the bow off him and knocks and looses an arrow in a seamless motion. It hits dead center, vibrating slightly.

Galahad laughs. "Way to show me up."

"Merely showing you what practice can achieve." Tristan grins.

"Let me practice then."

"Don't mind me." Tristan steps back to lean against a fence rail.

Blushing slightly, Galahad nocks another arrow carefully; takes position. He shoots, over and over until the quiver is empty. He watches his circle of aim get smaller and smaller. Then he puts his bow down and walks with Tristan to retrieve the arrows.

"You're picking it up quick. We'll have you on moving targets in no time."

"Thanks," Galahad murmurs. His cheeks turn a bit pink at the praise. It feels like something he may have done once upon a time. He really has no idea. He watches Tristan reset the target and refill his quiver and yearns, quietly.

"Okay, pup?" Tristan asks.

Galahad nods, ducking his head. Tristan gives him a big grin.

"Go on, I can tell you won't be satisfied until you hit the bull's-eye."

With a bashful laugh, Galahad just nocks another arrow. He practices until his arms are shaking.

"All right, you're getting wobbly now," Tristan chuckles eventually.

Galahad grimaces but stops, stretching gingerly.

"Come on. Let's get you on a bike for patrol."

Galahad nods and helps him put away the equipment. "How long do patrols usually last?"

"A few hours, maybe. We'll make sure we're home before dark."

"All right."

As they walk, Tristan hands him a slightly battered cereal bar. "This should help with the shakes."

"Thanks." Galahad takes it with a blushing smile and tears it open as they walk. "You don't want some?"

"No, you can have it."

He eats it obediently, following Tristan to the bike shed and watching him check over his ride. Then he watches him swing a long, slim leg over the seat.

He pats the seat behind him. "Come on."

Galahad seats himself carefully and wraps his arms around Tristan. The engine growls to life. Galahad takes a deep breath and squeezes as Tristan's bike shoots down the lane. He feels Tristan's chuckle reverberate through his chest.

"Lean with me when I turn," he calls back when they reach the main road.

Galahad does as he's bid. It's easier than he expects, mostly because Tristan is so relaxed. The scenery zips by, making Galahad's head ache. He closes his eyes for a moment.

He hears the gates opening, and the screech of the tires again. He opens his eyes and peers over Tristan's shoulder. They're outside the farm compound now, and the thought makes him tense. He has to convince himself it's safe somehow, or he'll never be of any use to the Knights. Does safe even exist anymore? He suspects he won't like the answer to that. He's not even sure where they're going.

The one thing that does make him feel safe is being with Tristan.

At first, it seems they're just riding, slow, steady, a familiar route. Not to Galahad, of course, but eventually the dizzy feeling passes. He tries to keep his eyes on the passing scenery. He tries to watch for Shamblers.

The flickering images make his head throb still, but he keeps watching until - "There!"

He feels Tristan's back muscles tense. He pits the bike to a stop, engine still revving, and Galahad reaches back and hands him his bow. One shot, and the stumbling figure falls.

"They die, like normal?"

"They're easy to kill," Tristan mumbles. "Just a head shot."

"I'll work on my aim," Galahad murmurs.

"You'll get there." He hands the bow back for Galahad to stow.

Galahad tucks it behind him and gets his arms quickly back around Tristan as he takes off. They're flying again in no time. The sun is beating down, making the road ripple. It's hard to talk, so Galahad keeps quiet and just thinks. They barely see another living thing. At least the motorcycle riding goes off without a hitch.

Eventually, though, Galahad's head starts to throb. "Tristan?"

"Yeah?" comes the reply.

"Can - can we stop?"

Tristan pulls over immediately. Gratefully, Galahad lurches off the back of the bike, stomach turning with the vertigo. He sees a guardrail at the side of the road and goes to sit on it.

Tristan watches from the bike, cutting the engine. "You okay pup?"

"My head needs a minute," Galahad mumbles. It's throbbing hard, and he lowers it instinctively, hands braced on his knees.

Tristan comes over immediately to touch his forehead. "A little warm still," he sighs. "I think the medicine is wearing off."

"Sorry," Galahad whispers.

"It's all right. We'll go straight back, pup. No harm in that." He gestures. "We're not far from-"

Cutting off, he freezes, eyes fixed on something in the distance.

"Tristan?" Galahad whispers.

"We need to go," Tristan says.

Galahad's stomach lurches. "All right."

He raises his head to follow Tristan's gaze and immediately wobbles to his feet: they're not alone. It's far off, for now, but that could change. And then suddenly, it lurches into action, and from behind it, another figure emerges. Tristan swears.

"Now," Tristan grits.

Galahad jumps up and onto the bike, Tristan slotting in front of him and accepting the bow once more, nocking and loosing several times in quick succession when the first couple of shots miss. Then he kickstarts the engine and hands the bow to Galahad. The tires screech as they take off.

"I'm going to get us past them," Tristan calls back. "But you might have to shoot."

"Okay-" Galahad hoists the quiver onto his shoulder off the back of the bike, holding on with his knees as much as he can, leaning into Tristan for support while he prepares an arrow. He can feel his pulse in his throat. They're moving so fast it's hard to even keep a track of the Shambler running after them, but somehow Galahad draws back and looses the arrow without elbowing Tristan or snapping himself with the bowstring. He watches it fall with something like disbelief.

"I got it!" he crows, then nearly unbalances and has to clutch at Tristan for purchase, tucking his face back against his shoulder as they pick up speed.

"Now the other one," Tristan calls back, bike circling around.

"Oh fuck, okay-" He won't allow his hands to shake. He can't.

They're approaching this Shambler head on, so Galahad has to boost himself up and aim over Tristan's shoulder. Tristan is solid as a rock under him.

The arrow hits the thing in the shoulder, but it keeps lumbering, so Galahad quickly reloads. The second takes it in the thigh, and it falls but keeps clawing its way toward them, its moans rattling through the air. It takes him three shots to hit the head this time, and Tristan revs the bike again as soon as it falls. They cut round it, Galahad dropping back down into his seat, tucking himself down low as Tristan speeds away, back toward the farm.

This time he lets the tremor out. Just a little. His head pounds, and he feels entirely shaken, adrenaline-shot. He closes his eyes again, arms winding around Tristan's waist.

The way back feels somehow longer than before. There are no more Shamblers. Galahad isn't sure if he could take another encounter so soon. He lets his eyes stay closed then. His temples throb in time with the wheels on the road.

Finally, Tristan is pulling up at the gate and rummaging for his radio, touching the button a few times. The gate opens for them, and Dagonet appears as they come to a stop outside the barn.

"You came back in a hell of a hurry."

"The pup has a headache. Still shot three of 'em," Tristan helps Galahad off the bike. "Maybe he's not a first time archer after all," he adds.

"Maybe not," Dagonet takes the handles of the bike. "How was the ride, Galahad?"

"Fine," he murmurs, rubbing his eyes. "I just need to -"

"Inside," Tristan finishes.

Nodding, Galahad follows him; Dagonet volunteers to put the bike away for them.

Tristan goes straight to the meds in the kitchen. Galahad is starting to learn where things are, but he accepts the care. A few pills, a glass of water. He takes both with thanks and swallows them down.

"What else do you do here, when you're not...on duty?" he asks, hating the idea of being alone right now.

"You need to sleep," Tristan tells him, "but I've got some projects I can work on in the room."

Galahad nods tightly. He watches Tristan move around, hauling a tool box and what looks like hockey or rugby gear among some other scraps - leather and metal. Curious, he comes to take the tool box off Tristan to help him carry everything.

Back in Tristan's room, dim and cool, he curls gratefully on the bed. Tristan pulls a little fold up desk out and sets it up with the toolbox, sitting on the end of the bed and hauling the plating and leather into his lap. Galahad pillows his head on his arm and watches.

"You're making armor," he realizes slowly.

Tristan nods. "Nothing too heavy, but an extra layer can come in handy."

"What against-? Can they use weapons?"

"Not that I've ever seen, but they _will_ bite and claw through cloth. And they're not the only danger out there."

"Bite?" Galahad doesn't understand.

"We, pup, are their favorite food. Their only food, as far as anyone can tell." He gives Galahad a serious look. "You must not allow yourself to be bitten. Ever."

"That's what spreads it?"

"Yeah, that's it." Tristan nods. "That's why I'm making this. Been researching how to make chainmail too but I need more supplies and I'm honestly not sure where to get them."

Galahad nods, watching his deft fingers clip scrap metal and lash it onto the leather. It's soothing to watch. He drops off again to the sound of snips and stitching.


	2. Chapter 2

Watching his sleeping charge, Tristan whiles away a couple of hours fitting together the paneling. He's good at this - the others usually ask him to make repairs. And the leather they found has been a godsend. He's good enough at patching now to be able to study the boy instead of his hands.

He still looks grey and tired, but not quite as feeble as when they found him. Tristan can tell he's a strong, active boy. The way he'd handled their run in earlier is proof enough of that. Maybe he was terrified. But he acted, he didn't freeze. It's the single most important thing. And he was certainly quick enough on the uptake. Arthur will appreciate another quick mind among them.

A creaking floorboard signals someone's approach. Galahad doesn't stir, and Tristan looks up as the door cracks open. Lancelot, holding a tray.

"I brought enough for two," he murmurs.

Tristan nods. "I'll take it and then come out."

He shifts to take the tray, setting it on a battered dresser and then skirting into the hallway. Lancelot sits on the deep windowsill opposite and Tristan leans against the wall.

"How is he?" Lancelot asks.

"Worn out. Trying too hard to fight it."

"He remembered anything?"

"Nothing concrete. He has skills, though. He rides well and he shoots better than he ought to for a beginner."

"That's encouraging at least."

Tristan nods. "He's trainable. He'll be an asset."

"And you like him," Lancelot murmurs, clearly amused.

"If I do?"

"Then good for you. I just wondered if you planned to share that information with him."

"Seems a bit forward, doesn't it?"

"Ah, okay. So you're just going to let him sleep in your bed and follow you around like a shadow. Fair enough."

Tristan shrugs. "What if he doesn't - really want that?"

"Then you can give him his own room."

Tristan grimaces. "Thanks for your candor."

"See? You don't want to. You like him. I'm not criticizing, I'm not sure I remember what it's like to see you smile at someone."

"Shut up," Tristan grumbles, "I can't like a man who doesn't even know who he is."

"Can't you?" Lancelot raises a skeptical brow.

"It's just not right."

"It's not right? Why not?"

"Well, what if he has someone he can't remember?"

"Then tough shit, he can't remember them."

"So practical, Lance."

"Someone's got to be."

"Isn't that Arthur's job?"

"Isn't that Guin's job?" Lancelot returns with a laugh.

That makes Tristan smile. It's true. "How are things with you three?"

It had been a little fraught for a while, with all their mixed up, blurred affections. Now, Guinevere seems to have come out of it with two rather devoted lovers.

Lance just smiles. "We're making it work."

"Not much else to do at the end of the world."

"My point exactly."

Tristan sighs. "He's recovering from a life-changing injury."

"Then help him. As you are already." Lancelot shrugs. "He might appreciate knowing he's still human."

Tristan sighs. Good to know he's being completely transparent, at least. He says as much to Lancelot, who just snorts.

"Tristan, he literally hasn't left your side."

"I suppose he hasn't." Tristan can't explain how it makes him feel. But Lancelot is smiling, his handsome face made soft and knowing with it.

"Don't overthink it," he urges.

"No," Tristan rumbles.

"It's your night in the perch, by the way," Lancelot reminds.

"Right," Tristan murmurs.

"You should take the boy," he preempts Tristan's thought, "there's room for two."

"I'll ask," Tristan replies.

Lancelot nods. "Go eat."

Tristan slips back into his room with a nod. Galahad is still sleeping, more relaxed than he's seemed so far.

Tristan takes a moment to study him again. He really is beautiful, delicate-looking and boyish. It had been a bit startling, after his wild curls and beard had been clipped back. Tristan hasn't felt _attraction_ for what feels like decades. He's not entirely sure how to handle it.

He settles for reaching out and gently touching Galahad's shoulder. The boy's startle is small. But he soon calms when he sees Tristan.

"How long was I asleep-?"

"Not too long, but I have dinner for us."

"Oh, thank you." He scrambles up in bed, rubbing his eyes.

Tristan brings the tray over and sets it between them on the bed. He can't quite help watching him. Galahad doesn't seem to mind, if he notices.

"There's a treedeck out in the orchard," Tristan offers eventually, though 'orchard' is a strong word for the few fruit trees south of the vegetable allotment. "We take it in turns to keep watch, just so we don't get taken by surprise. It's my turn tonight. Would you like to stay here?"

Galahad shakes his head immediately.

"You're sure? It's a long watch."

"I'm sure. I'm not tired now."

"You can still sleep if you need to."

"Sleep with me then," he answers.

"You mean because you're lying about not being tired?" Tristan chuckles.

Galahad glowers at him.

"You have had an actual brain injury," Tristan reminds him gently, "there's no wonder you're tired."

"Lie down with me, then," Galahad says again.

Tristan smiles. "If you insist."

Galahad makes room for him. As before, he doesn't turn away. Tristan wishes he were more forward. Wishes it didn't feel incredibly inappropriate to be forward with a man in Galahad's position. Lancelot clearly thinks he ought to.

It's too soon. It's barely been three days. The urge only grows as Galahad starts to come back to himself a little. But Tristan has to acknowledge to himself that the moment he saw him, he felt a pull. He doesn't want to deny it.

"Are you all right?" Galahad murmurs.

"Just thinking about your situation," Tristan says.

"My situation?"

"Your memory problems," Tristan clarifies, carefully. "I wish we knew more."

Galahad shrugs faintly. "Wishing probably won't do much."

"No," Tristan agrees softly.

"I think I'm a little angry though," Galahad says, a musing quality to his voice.

"I understand that. Something's been taken from you."

"It feels that way. Not like losing it. Like having it snatched."

"We can talk about things. Try to make new memories for you."

"That sounds good."

"Start right now. Favorite animal?"

Galahad bites his lip. "Horse. What's yours?"

Tristan laughs softly. "Iseult."

Galahad nods, fidgeting with a frayed hole in the sheets. "Tell me some of your memories from before?"

"I used to like to go camping," Tristan says thoughtfully. "The real stuff, backpacks and shelters in the woods."

"Is that why you're so good at this kind of thing?"

"Maybe. It's come in handy."

"Will you teach me?"

"Of course, I'm happy to."

"Good." Galahad sighs, then he shifts. "Do you think... Arthur will want me to leave eventually?"

"Not if you don't give him a reason to. There's safety in numbers, pup. We didn't all know each other before this." He nudges him. "Tell me your favorite weather."

"Clear and cold," Galahad says automatically, which isn't something that happens around this area.

Tristan raises his eyebrows and then laughs. "I told you you were British."

"Maybe I am."

"Maybe you are. But I'm glad you're here now."

"Me too," Galahad sighs, closing his eyes.

Tristan touches his cheek. "Don't worry. It'll be okay."

"Will it?" he whispers.

"Of course it will. I'm going to help you."

"You seem to like doing that."

"I do." Tristan shrugs.

"For anyone, or am I special?" Galahad murmurs.

Tristan shrugs a shoulder up. "I don't usually like company."

"So I am special." He says it a little dryly.

Tristan hesitates. "You are, Galahad."

He's not expecting the blush. It's unfairly appealing. It gives him...thoughts.

"Thank you, Tristan." It's said softly. Galahad suddenly looks pensive. "I think you're special too but... I think I need a little more time to get to know myself before... before I can..."

"Oh, I - of course, I didn't mean-"

"I want to," Galahad interrupts softly, "I mean it. I'm not... saying no. I'm just saying... not yet."

" _Oh_ ," Tristan says again.

"Is that okay?" Galahad says.

"Yes," Tristan murmurs, "yes, I'm - glad-"

"Good." He still looks a bit pink.

"It's probably good," he murmurs back. "Not to rush."

"Yes." Galahad bites his lip, and then seems to gain some boldness, and shifts closer. Tristan makes room for him, thrilling as their bodies make contact.

It's innocent enough, just the press of him, but Tristan can't help but notice the way Galahad shivers and closes his eyes like he's missed it. Tristan hadn't been oblivious to the way he'd held onto him on the bike earlier. He'd have done nearly anything to prolong it. Now, he folds a careful arm over Galahad and lets him rest against him.

Galahad leans up and presses a single chaste kiss against his lips. Tristan cups the back of his head gently, holding his gaze when he pulls back. The crop of his hair feels like velvet under the motion of Tristan's thumb.

"Can I do that again?" he asks.

Galahad licks his lips. "Sure," he whispers.

It's still soft, this kiss, though a little more lingering. Tristan doesn't let it go on too long, though, mindful of the tension in the boy's spine. He just pets his hair and watches him slowly relax. "Get some more sleep, Galahad," he whispers.

"Thank you," he answers softly. He melts into Tristan's body.

It's like nothing Tristan can remember feeling since this started, comfort and trust. Even before, he was regarded as strange, bizarre, unkempt and wild. He's always been a loner. Perhaps the end of the world awoke something in him, though he's never minded his solitude before. Perhaps it's just this boy. And the Knights, of course. Though with them, he's always enjoyed the distance his reputation has afforded him too.

Arthur thought of him as an odd fellow initially, certainly. Arthur, who has unquestionably always been their leader. He hasn't ever been unfair to Tristan, but at first he was wary.

Lance was less so. Though he had called Tristan a Wood Witch a few times. He seems to mean it admiringly.

The thought makes Tristan smile to himself. They're all a good team now. And now...Galahad. Tristan wants so badly to know him, to know about him. Especially now that he's had a taste.

And what a taste it was. Galahad seemed so happy to give him a hint of sweetness, like sugar on the rim of a glass. And like that glass, he knows there's something more potent inside.

Sighing, he watches him, trying to persuade himself to do the same. Sleep while they can sleep. It's hard to tear his eyes away. Galahad reminds him of cathedral art from some far-off time and place. Especially when he'd first arrived, curls all wild around his cheeks. Like a young John the Baptist, having visions in the wilderness.

With that thought in his head, Tristan manages to lull himself to sleep.

//

That first watch, after that first chaste kiss, is only the first of many. The kiss, however, has yet to be repeated. Tristan watches Galahad change over the next few weeks, from skittish and unsure to wry, witty, and surprisingly capable. And fiery, at times. That part always takes Tristan by surprise.

He's not one for settling; he practices archery every day, sometimes getting up before Tristan to go and shoot at the targets. He applies the same stringency to everything, whatever task he's been assigned. He helps Gawain with a number of repairs to the farmhouse, with a deftness that suggests prior experience of some sort. He nearly singlehandedly takes over care of the horses when Tristan is out scouting with Iseult.

In turn, he seems to have a way with them that no one else does - not even Tristan. He laughs good-naturedly when Hank and Shadow shun Tristan in favor of nosing around Galahad's pockets for treats.

They continue to share a room, though even Arthur acknowledges how strange it is for Tristan to sleep in a bed rather than at forty minute intervals in whatever corner he can find. Lancelot watches their interactions with rather discomfiting interest. He's watching today, while Tristan shows Galahad how to basket weave. This is a task that Galahad seems not to enjoy as much, though he's not bad at it. Still, he listens attentively. Then he

imitates the motions.

Tristan loves to teach him precisely for that diligence and seriousness with which he regards him. Galahad had asked to be taught. If he can do nothing else he wants, he'll do that. Having his attention is simply a bonus.

Having Lancelot chiming in is...not. "You should have started him on a simpler weave."

"He can handle it."

"He looks like he's handling it."

"I'll handle you into the dirt in a minute," Galahad grouses.

Lance just laughs. "I doubt you could take me."

"Do you want to find out?"

"Yeah, come on then."

"Sorry, Tris," Galahad bounces up, basket abandoned, grinning toothily at Lancelot.

"Galahad, you have no experience in hand-to-hand and Lancelot is an ex-marine."

"How do _you_ know?" Galahad grouses. His eyes have taken on that flinty gleam of challenge, but he's still smiling.

"Skills challenge, then?" Lance says lazily.

"Why not." Galahad cocks his head. His curls, which have grown back in a little, fall across his forehead. "What skills?"

Lancelot looks considering, which Tristan denotes as a bad sign. "It's pretty late," he muses. "What we need are some beers, and some knives."

Arthur and Gawain are out on patrol, Dagonet and Vanora are out working the farm, and Guinevere and Bors are sleeping before their shift in the perch tonight.

"Beers-? An apocalypse descended and you all grabbed beer?" Galahad laughs.

"Some of us have different priorities for our leisure time," Lance shrugs.

Tristan is one of them. He shrugs. "I'll take some of the vodka."

"You'd better compete, then," Lance laughs.

"I don't want to embarrass you."

Galahad cracks out a laugh. "Come on Tris, you show us how it's done."

"Very well." He tidies his supplies away and stands. He has his own switchblade, and he whips it out now and throws it in one smooth motion into the dartboard that hangs on the kitchen door. Lancelot doesn't change his expression, but Galahad's eyes go a little wider. The knife, still vibrating slightly, has struck dead-centre.

"The bar is set high," Lancelot grins, removing the knife and handing it back to Tristan.

Tristan hands it to Galahad with a wink. "Still low for some."

"I'm next?" Galahad gulps and steps back to the line where Tristan started.

"You're next. You can do it."

He watches Galahad size up the target and the knife. Then, he throws it swiftly. It's not a half-bad throw; the boy has a good eye, and he hits very close to the bull's-eye.

"Bloody hell," Lancelot mutters, "you've been spending too much time with the Wood Witch."

"Define too much," Galahad sasses back.

Lancelot reveals his own blade, flicking it in an intricate figure eight and catching it before he throws. His throw is good too. His blade sings into the board just above Galahad's.

"Best of three?" Tristan suggests lazily.

"By all means."

"Sure," Galahad murmurs.

Tristan goes to retrieve the knives. His eyes are all for Galahad. He notices Galahad's own gaze is never far from him. He can feel Lancelot's interest too, like a bored housecat. While Tristan throws, Lancelot goes to the pantry and brings out a bottle of vodka, pouring three generous measures. Galahad eyes it askance, but picks it up anyway.

"To the best out of three," Lancelot chuckles, and they drink. Tristan, meanwhile, has thrown another bull's-eye. "You're not human," Lancelot laughs.

"Perhaps I am a witch," he answers easily.

"Definitely magic," Galahad puts in. He sounds a little breathless.

Tristan meets his gaze fleetingly. Damn Lancelot, honestly; why isn't he off being a third wheel somewhere else? Pouring out another measure for them each, Tristan goes to retrieve his blade for Galahad to throw.

"We'll have to get the kid one of his own," Lancelot comments.

"Yeah, let's do that. I wanted to get him back to the market anyway."

"Yeah?" Lancelot queries.

Galahad raises his eyebrows too, and Tristan addresses him. "We never checked it out properly. We should have gone straight back but I suppose we wanted you to get better. It might be worth seeing if you left anything behind."

Galahad makes a face. "I guess."

"You don't want to?"

"Sometimes I think it's better just to... start fresh. But you're probably right."

"We don't have to. It's up to you."

Galahad pauses, aims, throws. The blade hits so close to Lancelot's it displaces it.

"Guess it's all riding on this third throw," Lancelot says lazily. "Maybe I should have let you wrestle me, kid."

"It's not too late," Galahad snorts, "if you really think that would help."

"I don't think it would," Tristan murmurs.

Lancelot pretends to be offended. "Are you saying you don't think I could take him?" Tristan glowers at him.

"I think that is what he's saying," Galahad grins.

"Oh, plenty of experience wrestling him, have you Tris?" Galahad goes pink at that.

"Just faith in him." Tristan arches a brow.

"Of course. Well. When I inevitably lose this contest, I'll drink to that." He shrugs. "Anyway, whose turn is it?"

"Mine," Tristan says. He flicks the knife in a circle and then throws it. A third bull's-eye, as intended.

Lancelot mimes taking a knife to the heart. He gestures to Galahad to go retrieve it and take his turn.

This time, Galahad barely even looks when he throws it. It's a decent toss, still, sticking in the edge of the inner ring. Lancelot hisses. Galahad flips him off, good-naturedly.

Lancelot takes his turn. His throw sticks just outside the inner ring. He winces theatrically, but Tristan suspects he's put it exactly where he wanted it. "Alas, I have lost."

"We both lost," Galahad corrects.

"But I lost lost."

"If you say so." Galahad shrugs. "Wrestling is still on the table."

"I'd rather drink," Lancelot says, refilling their glasses.

Galahad nods and drains it obediently with a hiss. Tristan watches a flush start to bloom over his cheeks and throat. He looks at the healing wound in his hairline, wondering if it still hurts; if the alcohol will affect his memories any. The stitches are long removed, the scar fading from red to pink. It will probably always carve a slight nick into the growth pattern of his hair. His curls are appearing again, though still in little ringlets near the scar.

Tristan, as often is the case, has to curb himself against touching them now. Especially in front of Lance, who is absolutely under no illusion about what Tristan wants. Not that Galahad probably is either - but they haven't talked about it, have they? They've refocused their energies on training, on making him a part of their group. And he undeniably is. Bors is even getting to like him now.

That's an accomplishment, especially with Vanora treating him like her own darling boy. The thought makes Tristan smile: Galahad has made everyone jealous, one way or another. Even Arthur, at least, in that Tristan is spending less time wandering. Before, he was always looking. Searching. Finding things to occupy his attention. He has always had a penchant for nature; views that take his breath away in one way or another. Now, he finds his gaze occupied wholly by something much closer to home.

He doesn't regret it. It's good to feel something. Galahad feels like sustenance for his very soul in a way he can't explain. Even just this, watching him drink and joke over throwing knives. He's getting pinker with it as the time goes on, him and Lancelot bickering.

When Dagonet and Vanora come in from the farm with baskets of eggs and carrots and potatoes, the bantering goes on. The drinking goes on, too. Tristan takes the potatoes and carrots to the sink to clean and chop them.

Surely enough, and to a few knowing little comments, Galahad soon comes to help him. Tracking the flush on his cheeks, he gives Galahad the brush to clean them and does the peeling himself. Galahad's elbow comfortably bumps against his.

"Sorry about the baskets," he murmurs. "I want to try again tomorrow when I'm not so tired."

"There's nothing to be sorry about." He hands him another carrot. "Feeling all right?"

"I have a headache, what's new?" Galahad laughs. "And I'm a little drunk."

"I can tell. Do you need to go lie down? I can finish this."

"No, I want to stay." He grins up at Tristan, leaning slightly into his shoulder.

"You mean you want to wait until I come with you," Tristan chuckles.

"How do you always know what I mean," Galahad replies, eyes wide and blue.

"It's because you're a shit liar."

He watches Galahad consider being mad about it; and decide against it. He still pouts. "We can't all be psychic."

Tristan tugs on a tiny curl behind his ear. "You're perfect the way you are."

"Oh yeah?"

"I promise you."

Galahad bites his lip, holding his gaze. Tristan lets him. Would that it were appropriate to tell the others Galahad needs to rest, and leave them all behind. If only it meant he could finally have what he longs for. But he can wait. Tristan has long learned the value of patience. And Galahad is certainly worth it.

"Let's make these guys a good dinner and then get you to bed," Tristan promises.

"Deal." Galahad continues scrubbing, head down and ears pink. Tristan smiles at the crown of his head for a moment before going back to prep.

Between them, they manage to rustle up a decent meal, and Guin and Bors get up in time for dinner and they all manage to get sat down together around the big wooden table. The table is circled by little clusters of conversation and the sound of utensils scraping. Though he's been gamely laughing along so far, now Galahad is notably quieter.

Tristan touches his knee under the table. Galahad looks up at him. "Ready to go?"

"Yeah," Galahad laughs, sounding a little relieved: they've had a long day of farm work and such and he's done admirably.

Tristan's stony expression precludes much of the teasing when they both rise together. Even so, it's rewarding to see Vanora kiss Galahad's forehead and tell him to feel better; to watch their family smile at him like he's always been a part of the pack. The only one who catches the softening of his expression is Arthur. He gives Tristan a nod as they walk past, and Tristan returns it before steering Galahad away toward the bedroom.

He tips pills into his palm and hands them to Galahad; they're weaning him off of the stronger meds but they could really use a restock just in case.

"Thanks," Galahad murmurs, taking them before he strips off his clothes and pads to the bathroom to wash up. Tristan takes a moment to straighten up their room before pulling off his own. He's not sure why making the bed and scooping up various work clothes into the laundry feels important tonight. He just wants to do it.

When they've traded places and Tristan was cleaned up for bed, he returns to find Galahad curled appealingly on his side, chest bare and eyes closed. Tristan usually sleeps on his back, but he can't resist facing the boy. It's been like this for months now. And as it often is the case, Galahad opens his eyes and smiles at him, like he can feel his gaze.

"Did I wake you?" Tristan murmurs.

"No," Galahad smiles.

"Just resting your eyes?" Tristan asks, amused.

"My head hurts, that's all." Tristan lays a hand over his brow. Galahad's eyes flutter closed again, grateful.

"Did you want to talk?" Tristan murmurs.

"Sure, what about?"

"Anything that's on your mind," Tristan says. "Did Lancelot bother you today?"

"Bother me? About what?"

"His...everything?" Tristan snorts.

"Sounds like he bothered _you_ , Tris," Galahad says sleepily.

"Maybe a little. I don't like him pressuring you."

"He wouldn't have hurt me, you know," Galahad murmurs.

"How do you know?"

"I just do. I don't know. Don't worry so much about me, Tristan."

"Yeah? Think you might be scrappy?" Tristan mimes giving him a couple of playful punches.

"I know I am."

"Prove it," Tristan chuckles.

Galahad wraps quick fingers around Tristan's wrist and pins it above their heads. Tristan laughs, short and shocked. He rolls, unable to break the grip but getting his calf hooked around Galahad's ankles. Galahad lets out a soft 'oof' of effort as Tristan drops him onto his back on the mattress, but he doesn't let go.

Tristan sinks onto his elbow. With a herculean grunt of effort, Galahad knocks it out from beneath him and twists them again. This time, Galahad lets his weight solidly down on Tristan. It shocks a laugh out of him, and he cups his free hand against Galahad's waist. "You got me."

"I think you let me," Galahad laughs back.

"I would never." Tristan looks up at him with his most serious expression.

Smiling softly, Galahad leans down, touching their foreheads. Tristan holds back a sigh. "Do you want me to move?" Galahad whispers.

"Not especially."

"Good. Good." He settles more comfortably against him, their faces so close Tristan's vision blurs. His cheek presses to Tristan's. Tristan strokes gently over the crop of his hair, holding him close.

"What is it, boy?"

"I feel...happy," he whispers.

"Yeah?" Tristan rubs their cheeks together, relishing the way their facial hair scratches.

"Yeah." His breath is warm, his fingers slipping up to lace through Tristan's. His voice puffs softly against Tristan's ear now. "I feel like I've always been here with you."

"So do I," Tristan murmurs. He smiles, warmed by the admission. His lovely boy. "Galahad..." he draws his palm down his back.

He's not sure what he means to say, besides just that name. The name Tristan gave him, the name he chose. Galahad pushes up on one arm to look down at him, expression soft.

"Tell me."

"I..." Tristan bites his lip. "I still want to go back to the store, to see if there are any clues about you there," he confesses quietly. "But also, I don't want that at all."

Galahad smiles at him softly. "Yeah... feel a little conflicted about it myself."

Tristan nods, closing his eyes, feeling the line of heat from his body. "I like that all you've known is me," he admits.

" _Tris_ ," Galahad sighs. "I like it too."

Tristan wonders if that means he's changed his mind, but he's not sure how to ask. He runs his hand up and down the dip of his spine again. The little sigh the action triggers is entirely too appealing.

"I think it still will be," Galahad shrugs, "I don't remember anything. No dreams about it, no faces that aren't ones I see every day."

Tristan hums an acknowledgment. It's difficult to concentrate with their hips together, Galahad's warm stomach against his own. He can feel his breathing pick up despite himself.

"I'll still be yours," Galahad whispers.

Tristan wraps a heavy hand around the back of his neck. "Be mine now."

He can't help how it sounds more desperate than an invitation. Galahad bows his head slowly. His lips brush over Tristan's, devastatingly gentle. Tristan tugs him closer. Other than that, he holds completely still, lets Galahad do what he wants.

The kiss is long and searching. Tristan's hand cards lightly through the hair at the nape of Galahad's neck. His whole body feels enlivened by the contact; he's elated, and trying so hard to be careful. He can't quite help a soft moan.

Galahad shivers against him. Tristan feels like he's been taken over, all five senses. Like he's been given a _gift_. He has. Galahad is heavy and warm and beautifully alive.

He pulls away breathlessly to press their foreheads together again. "Sorry, is that-?"

"It's wonderful," Tristan murmurs.

Galahad gives him a big, bright smile. "It is," he whispers back.

Tristan strokes his bearded cheek. "I don't need anything more than this," he whispers. "But...if we could keep having this, I would like that."

"I'd like it too," Galahad assures, with a chuckle. "Obviously."

He squirms a little. Tristan stays carefully still. But the flush spreading across Galahad's cheekbones is promising. He's clearly a little turned on, just shy of physically, though there's nothing urgent about his movements. He seems content just to be close.

Tristan is too; he wasn't lying. He wouldn't ask for more, if Galahad didn't want it. Now, Galahad dips to kiss him again. It's still slow, lingering. Tristan folds his arms around his middle, sighing softly.

Galahad's lips slant into something dirty every once in a while before retreating. It's a pleasurable sort of tease. Tristan is fine with him feeling out the boundaries. He's delighted that's they're expanding. Delighted to be part of the exploration. It gives him a sense of freedom he hasn't had before, to expand his own touches a bit. Galahad seems plenty content with that too.

There's no distracting himself with thoughts of injuries and ill-fitting clothing, now. Galahad is here, and safe, and sighing softly. He tangles his fingers into Tristan's hair, brushing it out of his face and covering it with kisses.

"Galahad," Tristan sighs, practically purring.

"My Tristan." He smiles softly. "Half tempted to think it was a good thing, my accident."

"I don't know what to think about that," Tristan murmurs. "I don't like seeing you injured, or in pain."

"I know you don't. I don't like being injured or in pain. But I like you."

Tristan sighs and pulls their mouths together again.

"I might not have known you," Galahad adds softly.

"You were meant to," Tristan admits softly.

Galahad settles against him, comfortable now instead of purposeful. "You mean that."

"Of course." He means every word.

It elicits a soft sigh. "I think you're right."

"I often am."

Galahad laughs. "I won't even argue."

"You're learning then."

"You're terrible."

"Sounds like you need to learn a few more things."

Tristan smirks, and Galahad pushes himself up to go nose to nose again. "Go on then, teach me."

Tristan shifts his hands to cup his ass and lifts him up to get his mouth on his throat. Galahad's little startle is warming in all manner of ways. But Tristan is too busy tasting the line of tender skin where his beard is clipped close. He wants him so much. He wants his mouth on every inch of naked skin he's seen and not touched for so long. But he can still be patient, if Galahad needs that. He _can_. He'll wait for a cue.

Galahad seems content with this for now. If it is a lesson to be taught, that they both enjoy mouths tasting skin, he is happy to teach it. Happier still to have the opportunity. Every moment he spends with this boy.

When it becomes plain Galahad isn't feeling brave enough to go further, Tristan folds his arms around him and twists until they're tangled together on their sides, snug and warm. "You are such a gift," he murmurs.

"You're the one who's a gift."

Tristan smiles fondly. He strokes Galahad's hair. "Go to sleep, pup."

Galahad sniffs, but Tristan can sense him giving in.

"Your head hurts," he reminds him gently.

"You're plenty distracting."

"Good to know." He kisses Galahad's forehead. "I'll go to sleep too."

"Good." He curls a possessive arm over him. "Good."

He's quiet then, breathing going measured. Tristan closes his eyes and beams into the dark. Until finally he sleeps as well.


	3. Chapter 3

Their excursion back to the market is carefully planned, and executed a few days later. Galahad is feeling somewhat abruptly better, the headaches that have recurred having suddenly abated. He's tucked behind Galahad on the bike, Lancelot and Guin riding in convoy behind them.

He presses his cheek against the leather of Tristan's jacket. It's overcast but still humid, but the air whips by them as they ride. He's seen the roads around the farm dozens of times in the weeks he's been helping with patrols, and he's never asked before which one goes to the market. It never really mattered - he was happy enough not knowing about his past for a while. He's still not convinced it will mean anything. But Tristan seems to feel somehow guilty, like he stole him away. It's a surprising display of emotion from a very practical man.

Galahad tries to take it as a testament to how he feels about him. They've been taking things slowly, and that was Galahad's request. He likes it the way it is, but he thinks maybe he's ready for more. Dreams about it sometimes. And wakes up guilty in turn, pink-cheeked and shying from Tristan's body against his own.

He's sure Tristan knows. He never seems annoyed. It's hard to picture him angry. Ever. Galahad has seen him calm fretful animals and stroke Iseult's down too many times to think it possible.

He hugs him tighter at the thought. He feels safe. As safe as he possibly could.

Soon, their little convoy peels off and comes to a stop in the parking lot, cutting their engines and waiting for a moment. "We'll circle round the back and secure the lot," Guin says, pulling her shotgun out of its cycle holster.

Tristan nods to her, stepping off the bike and readying an arrow. He whistles softly to Iseult, settled in a tree by the road, and she flaps once in acknowledgment.

"You're with me, kid," Arthur says, heading for the front doors.

Galahad follows hurriedly, though he would prefer to stay with Tristan. He thinks Arthur knows that. Arthur likes to test their abilities, stretch their boundaries. It pokes at the tines of Galahad's trust. He grits his teeth and hopes Tristan will be quick.

Where the doors are boarded, one of the slats is loose, a desiccated corpse lodged in the gap. Galahad shudders, mainly out of habit. He's seen his share of Shamblers since the first time he was here. Arthur nudges it out of the way with a boot and ducks to crawl in. Galahad grimaces, and follows.

Panic starts to eat at him as he straightens and surveys the mess. The store has clearly been raided many times. There doesn't seem to be much left. He fingers the knife at his hip. Arthur moves forward with less caution. He's scanning the store with military precision. Nothing moves though, and soon enough he gestures that the coast is clear for now.

"Go look around," he murmurs to Galahad. "I'm going to check the pharmacy aisle."

With a nod, Galahad goes, trying to stifle the sudden quake that seems to have inhabited his extremities. He definitely feels a tightness in his lungs. He wants Tristan.

He forces himself to inspect the market, aisle by aisle. Automatically he picks things up he thinks will be well-received - odd packets of chips and jerky that are left scattered around, some rogue candy bars and a few kitchen utensils. He stuffs them deep into the rucksack he carries, eyes darting here and there at the noises from Arthur's progress across the store. He comes across a few other helpful things but mostly everything else has been liberated. Then he stops short at the sight of a crumpled backpack, half-stuffed between two fixtures.

Slowly, almost reluctantly, he moves forward to examine it. A sound behind him makes him startle, but the sequence of clicks on the radio hooked to his belt mean it's just Guin and Tristan. With a shaky swallow, he grabs the bag and carries it as he goes looking for Tristan.

Guinevere is standing watch by the front doors. But Tristan has just ducked inside, and he comes to Galahad immediately when their eyes meet. "What you got there, pup?"

"I didn't look yet," he murmurs.

"Are you going to?"

"Not here," he replies softly.

"All right." Tristan squeezes his elbow briefly. It's shocking how quickly it makes the shakes go away. "I'll just do a quick sweep," Tristan tells him, "then we'll go."

Galahad nods and walks with him, still scanning the aisles for supplies. If Tristan finds it strange that he's shadowing him, he doesn't say. Galahad just holds out the rucksack for a few more odds and ends.

"I found bandages and toothpaste," Arthur calls over the aisles. "Guin, anything?"

"All quiet outside," she calls back. "Take your time. Is there a safe back there?"

"I'm on it," Arthur calls.

Tristan shakes his head. "We'd better go check."

"I can keep watch-?" Galahad volunteers.

"Keep looking for supplies. Guin has the door."

Galahad nods, watching Tristan go. He's not sure what he can do that Arthur can't, but it wouldn't surprise him if Tristan could crack a safe, either. It would surprise him more if he couldn't, in fact. In ways, Tristan's past remains as mysterious as Galahad's.

Galahad supposes he hasn't asked much about it. It never really seemed like they needed to. He asks about the woodcraft, mostly, because they spend so much time outside together. They ride, and tend the farm, and at night they lie touching foreheads and murmuring, but never about the past.

He sighs; here he is, standing in the middle of a destroyed market, mooning. With what might be _his_ past, hanging in his hand. He shakes his head and forces himself to look around. He gathers a few more things that might be useful, and then waits anxiously. Finally he goes to peek in the back office.

Tristan is yanking open the safe door with a triumphant yell. Galahad smiles and creeps closer.

"Bingo!" Arthur sounds pleased as he lifts out several cases of ammunition.

"Here," Galahad murmurs, bringing the rucksack.

Arthur loads them in gleefully. Tristan is still rummaging. Galahad can't help but watch him. He gets Arthur's attention.

"What is it? You find what you were looking for, kid?"

"I don't exactly know. I found some batteries though."

"Great," Arthur says, then freezes as Guin clicks on the radio. They all turn toward the door. "Time to go," Arthur murmurs.

Silently, they all file out of the ransacked office and creep down toward the door.

"Movement in the trees," Guin whispers when they crouch down behind her.

Tristan creeps out of the door silently, retrieving his bow and nocking an arrow. He crouches behind a trash bin, arrow trained on the leaves. Galahad watches with baited breath. But the figure that steps out of the trees isn't shambling. Tristan keeps the arrow trained on it nonetheless.

It's a man; he looks normal enough. "Do you recognize him?" Arthur whispers to Guin.

"I don't think so."

"Who are you?" Arthur calls.

"No one important," answers the stranger, in a mellow voice. He's tall, and slim, with a neat beard and slicked-back dark hair. A brindle dog leans against his knee. "Just passing through. Don't mean any harm."

"This market doesn't have much left," Arthur replies evenly. "We were just leaving."

"Any dog food?" The stranger asks, an edge of amusement to his voice.

"Maybe," Tristan allows softly. Galahad knows he will have already had Guin load some onto the bikes.

"Mind if I take a look?" the stranger asks. He has a rifle across his back, but he makes no move for it. "I don't want any trouble."

"Feel free. We're on our way." Tristan loosens his bowstring and steps sideways, toward his bike. Arthur gestures and they all move.

"Take care now," says the stranger, dark hair falling into his eyes. He waits until they mount their bikes, then whistles the bulldog to heel and begins to trek across the lot.

Galahad watches him go - it's been so long since he's seen another human. "There are others," he observes aloud.

"There are," Arthur replies. Galahad bites his lip, and grasps the bag tighter. Arthur doesn't sound particularly friendly.

"Don't worry, pup," Tristan murmurs. He helps Galahad on the back of the bike, fastening the rucksack down behind him. Galahad keeps a hand on it even as he clings to Tristan with his other arm. Tristan kicks the bike into life and sends them in a graceful curve back onto the road. Iseult, who'd watched the conversation silently from her perch, swings into the air above them. No wonder Tristan hadn't looked nervous.

Back at the farm, they all unload their findings from Arthur's trailer and distribute this and that. Galahad hands over the rucksack and picks up the found backpack instead. He glances around at the Knights - they're all still busy unpacking and no one notices when he slips off behind the barn. Kneeling, his only companion is one of the farm dogs, who comes wagging to sniff his ears and lick his cheek while he chuckles. He settles heavily against the side of the barn, stroking the silky head and ears for a few moments. Then, tentatively, he opens the bag.

There's a mess of rope on the top, and he withdraws it carefully. Inside, there's not much- a lighter, matches, candles, a torch, batteries, and such like. A survival kit, much like what the Knights all carry. He rummages deeper, disappointed.

At the bottom of the pack, he finds a book. His heart jumps a little as he pulls it out and opens it. It's been carefully mended and re-mended, the spine long-broken. The title has worn off the leather cover, the pages dirty and yellowed. When he opens it, he touches the title page for a moment, wondering - it's poetry. An anthology.

He touches over the words, unfamiliar to him. He flips gently through the pages, hoping to find...he's not sure. Some note, some evidence of himself. There are notes in the margin, he sees. But nothing that makes him remember, and he scowls. Perhaps he'd hoped for something magical, after all.

With a noise of frustration, he shoves the book back in the pack. Then he hears a footfall, and looks up. Tristan, his brow drawn.

"Pup. I didn't see where you'd gone."

Now that he knows it's Tristan, he knows the heavy tread was on purpose. He'd wanted to give Galahad a moment.

"Sorry," he murmurs, "I suppose I was expecting... something."

"It's not _nothing_ ," Tristan replies softly. "What book is that?"

"Just poetry," Galahad says tiredly.

"There is no such thing as _just_ poetry," Tristan corrects gently. "The former owner of that pack, whether yourself or some stranger we will never know - they gave us a gift."

Biting his lip, Galahad just sighs. "I had hoped for more."

"I will read to you later, if you like," Tristan murmurs.

Galahad pauses a moment, then he nods, trying to keep his chin from wobbling. Silently, he bows his head against Tristan's knee. Tristan sinks down to meet him, lifting his face between reverent hands.

"It's okay, boy," he whispers, "I have you. It might come back."

"It might not," Galahad whispers back.

"And if it doesn't, you'll still have us. And we have _you_. Our Galahad."

He looks down, swallowing thickly. Tristan touches the ridge of his cheekbone with a thumb.

"You're ours now, whoever you were."

"Yours," Galahad sighs.

That makes Tristan kiss him. It's everything that Galahad needed. He clings to him and deepens the kiss without any conscious thought. He always needs more from Tristan, just seldom lets himself have it. He's never been sure why he always hesitates.

Maybe it's a feeling of unfairness- he hates to put pressure on Tristan to fix him. He knows he's not fixable, exactly; it's up to him to adjust. He sighs at the thought, leaning their foreheads together.

"Take me somewhere where we can be alone," he whispers.

Tristan swallows visibly and nods. He stands and offers a hand to Galahad and together, they head to the house. It's like they're encased in a bubble of silence. No one greets them as they pass through the halls. Tristan just leads Galahad through to his room and closes the door, locking it soundly. He removes the bag from Galahad's unresisting hand and sets it aside. Then, he tugs him in, and Galahad urgently starts to pull at the hem of his shirt.

He undresses him like he's been doing it every night since they found him. But it's the first, and it nearly shocks him how familiar Tristan's skin is; the marks on him. His strange and beautiful tattoos, even more vibrant under Galahad's wandering fingertips.

He's the mystery, even now. Even more a mystery - how he can be so endlessly tender to Galahad himself. Galahad has seen him fire arrows into the bushes at barely a sound; chase down fleeing Shamblers viciously. But now, he bends to kiss Galahad's chest and touches questioningly at his flies.

"Please," Galahad whispers.

Tristan undoes them dutifully; pushes them down. Galahad is nearly hard just from his proximity. When Tristan pulls him in, cupping his hips, the press makes Galahad gasp.

Tristan's mouth is gentle, tickling along the side of Galahad's neck, but his hands are firm. He smoothes his palms up Galahad's spine with a sigh. "What do you want, pup?" he says softly.

"I- I don't know. Just to be close. To remember something. To have something to remember."

"I will give you all of that," Tristan sighs delicately.

He tugs Galahad to the bed, down onto the mattress, where he carefully covers him with his body. His briefs dip low at his waist. Their bare stomachs touch, and Galahad doesn't think he's ever let this happen before. Oh, they've come close. But this isn't some sleepy brushing of skin in the morning but an honest to god rutting of hips.

Galahad remembers the dance of this, though he remembers so little else. It's more instinctive than anything else. Tristan kisses him again, and Galahad deepens it automatically. Their hands wander, bodies finding a rhythm. Galahad sighs with each rush of pleasure across his skin.

Tristan is kissing his throat softly. His mouth moves more slowly than his hands. Galahad thinks he's grateful. Tristan's mere presence overwhelms him a little. He pushes his face into his neck at the thought and clings.

"Make me yours," he whispers to the humid skin.

"How do you want me to do that, pup?"

Galahad sighs. "However you want to."

Tristan strokes through his wild hair. "Galahad... are you sure? You seem unsettled."

"I just...I need to stop thinking."

"Then let me help you." He murmurs it, then lets his mouth trail down over tender skin.

Galahad watches him with wide eyes. He shivers a little at the silky touch of long hair. Tristan seems just as enthralled by him as Galahad is in turn. At the permission to really touch, after so many nights and mornings.

"Galahad..." he sighs.

"Tristan? Love?"

"Just... being able to touch you."

"Don't ever stop again," Galahad murmurs.

"Happily, pup."

He keeps kissing. Tipping his head back against the mattress, Galahad sighs. He feels so completely safe with Tristan above him like this. He has since all this started. He doesn't remember anyone he's had sex with - but it doesn't stop him from wanting it. And wanting it bad. His moan is fairly torn from his throat as Tristan reaches his waistband. He skims them down gently. And his mouth continues down Galahad's hot skin.

"Tristan," Galahad pleads softly.

"I want to taste you," Tristan answers. "Can I?"

"Yes, yes," Galahad murmurs.

Tristan bows his head with a sigh of content. His breath gathers hot for a moment in the crease of Galahad's thigh. Then he takes him in. It shocks a cry out of him. Tristan takes him in deep, all heat and the delicious slide of wetness.

Shivering, Galahad feels crazed by the intimacy; the ease. He whimpers. In answer, Tristan strokes his hips gently. His thumbs press gently under the divots. His head moves, lips dragging slick. He bobs his head, and Galahad lays a hand gently on the crown. It's so much. Tristan is so lovely. Galahad doesn't think he could ever deserve him. But he is always so, so attentive, and gentle, even when he's correcting Galahad's weapons grips until he wants to scream.

Now, he's not correcting anything, but Galahad still feels like he's showing him something no one else can. He's showing him love, he thinks. The thought makes his throat tighten and he's struck.

"Tristan-"

Tristan hums around him.

"Tristan," Galahad repeats helplessly. Tristan only takes him deeper, tongue working. But Galahad touches his shoulders. "Come up here-?"

It takes a moment for him to slow his mouth. The noise when he pulls off is wet and obscene. Galahad groans, again when Tristan pushes himself up in a rush of muscles and tattoos. He winds his arms around his neck. Then he kisses Tristan's lips, delving slowly between them.

A pleased noise escapes him. He loves tasting himself, it seems. He loves tasting himself _with Tristan_. The two of them commingled is every pleasure he could wish for. He turns them over slowly in the sheets, warm in the heated day, the sunlight bleeding in through the boarded window slats.

It's his turn to taste Tristan. He can't help examine the ink on him. He's always loved the look of it, but he loves the way Tristan reacts to his mouth on it even more. He's so gentle, touching Galahad's hair with reverence. His big body shifts slightly with Galahad's own movements. He's breathing hard, murmuring now.

"You're so beautiful, boy."

Galahad whines slightly, no words coming. He leans down and bites Tristan's hip gently.

Tristan laughs softly. "I like your teeth."

"Do you? Now that I know -"

"Yes, do whatever you want."

Galahad relishes the opportunity to do a bit of gnawing. Tristan feels so edible, hip bones and ribs and soft skin. A bit of salt-sweat and the rime of soap, then when Galahad finally wraps his lips around him, the musky taste and scent of him. It makes his breath catch, to know him like this, to have such intimacy. He feels known in turn, his desires welcomed. And he wants more. He takes him into his mouth with greedy suction.

Tristan pants immediately, hissing his name as if shocked. But Galahad doesn't stop. He couldn't if he wanted to. He goes so deep that he chokes a little, and still doesn't stop.

"Gal, slow down," Tristan coaches gently. He's probably said it dozens of times since they've met. But Galahad doesn't want to. Stubbornness wins out. He presses down deeper, swallowing thickly. He might just never stop.

Tristan is groaning soft and constant. His hands knead into Galahad's hair. He sounds almost shocked. That's _good_.

Galahad feels triumphant at the realization. He can give him this. He's not the pupil for once.

He looks up avidly. Tristan looks so reverent. Galahad feels flushed just seeing it. He keeps going, closing his eyes in concentrating. He wants this so much. Every nerve he has responds to Tristan's proximity. He's aching for him.

He thinks his body wants more. He pulls off with a slick noise. "Tris," he murmurs.

"What is it?"

"I want you so much," Galahad whispers urgently.

"You can have me."

"I need something inside me," he admits.

Tristan's breath escapes in a rush.

"Please," Galahad adds.

"Of course-" Tristan feels like he's shaking slightly. He leans up to kiss Galahad hard.

Galahad clings shamelessly. Tristan guides him into his lap and cups his cheeks as he kisses him. It goes on for a long time, both of them sinking into it. It's giving and taking, getting to know one another. Tristan palms his hard-on every now and again, just, it seems, to touch. They can grind together well enough like this though.

Galahad lets out a soft moan each time. Being close is everything he needed. He wants Tristan to do whatever he likes, though. He's pulling Galahad closer, making soft, rough noises. When his fingertips delve between his cheeks, they both seem to hold their breath.

"Sure about this?" Tristan whispers.

Galahad nods.

"Okay pup, then I need to get my bag."

"Oh?" Galahad moves agreeably, a little breathless.

Tristan slips off the bed to retrieve it. He pulls out a box from his bag, clearly something he's scrounged from the market.

"What's that-?" Galahad asks, feeling a little stupid.

"Lubricant," Tristan murmurs.

"Oh. Of course-" He blushes.

Tristan smiles and slaps his hip playfully. "On your belly then, pup."

Galahad squeaks but turns over. He feels Tristan's lips trace his spine. He immediately moans.

That gets a little huff of laughter. "Been waiting to hear that, pup."

"Then keep going," Galahad gasps.

"I won't stop, trust me." He kisses Galahad's hip.

"Start first at least."

"Oh, Gal, I will."

Galahad smiles at him over his shoulder. He watches Tristan pop open the tube with avid eyes. Then with wet fingers he reaches down. Galahad moans again as soon as he presses.

Tristan cups his shoulder and hushes him gently. Galahad laughs softly and tries to calm his racing heart. It's next to impossible. He can feel Tristan's fingers gently exploring him. It pricks every nerve in his body with fire. Just like Tristan always has.

Watching him is nearly as good as feeling him. Tristan's eyes stay on him as well. "Ready?"

Galahad nods. Tristan kisses his shoulder as he eases in. It doesn't stop the moan. Galahad feels so _close_ to him.

It's perfect, truly. He feels something in him rejoice.

"I don't want to wait," he warns Tristan.

"I understand," Tristan murmurs back. He kisses his shoulder again fondly. Then he flexes his hips again.

Galahad cries out, struck by the fierceness of the sensation. It feels so right. He's barely even had time to think about whether or not he could miss this. But he undoubtedly has. And Tristan is a thing of dreams.

He's cupping Galahad's hips, angling them up so he can surge into him at the perfect angle. Galahad moans each time. This isn't what he expected - Tristan usually babies him far more. Now he's simply fucking him. It's like he wants to fuse them into one. He's fierce, possessive, biting at Galahad's shoulder and holding him tight enough to bruise. Wild, even.

It's delectable, truly. Galahad can't help the noises he makes. Low, desperate, grateful. He craves this like he wouldn't have believed a month ago. And Tristan seems so urgent in turn.

Galahad pushes himself up, and Tristan crushes him close. "I like you under me, pup."

"Keep me there," Galahad urges.

"Trust me, I won't let you out." He growls it softly. Galahad laughs helplessly.

"Tris," he gasps. "I love you." He feels Tristan gasp and stall above him. "Tris?"

"I love you," he murmurs. It's said in half a growl as well.

Galahad twists back to kiss him. He grasps Tristan's hair and hold him close while Tristan's hand splays across his belly. He's rocking his hips faster, their hips slapping together. Galahad lets Tristan's mouth muffle his groans. It's more than he can bear. Absolute pleasure. He's overwhelmed, joyfully so. Tristan's name slips out of his mouth as well.

He cups Galahad's jaw as he surges his hips quicker. Galahad bears back. Being held like this, like Tristan can't bear to let him get any further away than he absolutely has to, is almost as good as feeling him inside, mouth-wateringly rough. Galahad is overcome.

He whines it into the kiss, wordlessly pleading. He trusts Tristan to give him what he needs. Right now, that's simply more. Always more.

Tristan kisses behind his ear, murmuring there. Galahad breathes in slow and quiet to listen.

"Most beautiful thing I've ever seen," he whispers, "the moment I laid eyes on you..."

"Tris," Galahad pleads, but he continues.

"You were mine from that moment."

"I was," he promises weakly, "I was." He pushes back, pushes closer.

Tristan shifts, pushing like he's somehow trying to get closer, though Galahad is sure he couldn't. He encourages it anyway. Lets him tip their bodies this way and that, listening to his little animal noises. He's panting, tight, overcome.

"Tris," he pleads softly.

Grunting with effort, Tristan reaches for his cock.

"Not yet," Galahad pleads.

Tristan listens. He kisses Galahad's neck adoringly. He just keeps his hips flexing forward.

"Tristan," Galahad sighs.

"Love," Tristan whispers. He's moving slower now, though it still feels urgent. He keeps his strokes deep. Galahad clings at his hands. They move with urgent motions nonetheless.

Galahad nudges and they turn wordlessly, Galahad on his back and Tristan settling back atop of him and pushing back in with a grunt. Galahad reaches out his arms to pull him close. Their chests press, and like this Galahad feels so much closer to Tristan. He can cling as hard as he wishes.

Tristan is doing plenty of clinging of his own. He kisses Galahad's cheeks and chin and eyelids and throat. Whispers his name over and over as he fucks him to trembling. Finally Galahad begs him to touch him. Though he hardly needs it. But he does need the release, any way it comes. Tristan's hand stroking him slow is as good a way as any.

He whimpers into Tristan's kiss. His hips arch into the touch. "Good," Tristan praises.

"Fuck," Galahad gasps in answer. "Oh, Tris, please."

He obligingly strokes faster. Galahad pulls him down harder into each thrust. He's so close it burns. He throws his head back to pant and Tristan kisses his neck. It's a slow, steady tip and plummet off the edge of his pleasure. He feels his body react and Tristan's follow.

It feels like endless minutes of roiling, eking pleasure. Galahad shivers through it. He can't stop touching Tristan. Not even when the tiny rolls of his hips finally make Tristan gasp.

"Galahad," he breathes, easing his hips back.

Galahad takes his bearded face in his hands and kisses it. "Thank you, thank you-"

"Gal," Tristan whispers. "Don't _thank_ me."

"Why not? This was perfect, Tris, I love you so much-"

"And I love you, sweet boy." Tristan cups his cheek and kisses him. They stay pressed flush and sticky and satisfied. Galahad may never move again. And he certainly won't be letting Tristan up. They can just stay here. Forever.

When he shares his plan, Tristan chuckles warmly against his throat.

"Fair enough. The others might roust us out when they tire of doing our chores, mind you."

"I think they'll leave us be if they know what's good for them."

"Bold words, pup."

"You know me."

"Yes," Tristan murmurs, stroking his hair. He kisses behind his ear.

Galahad lets himself relax. He doesn't ever want to move from this moment.

//

Tristan is sitting in the kitchen playing cards with Arthur and Guin when the backup perimeter alarm goes off. For a moment, none of them react - it's been months since they've even heard it. Tristan is the first up, snatching his bow and quiver up off the chair close by and rushing for the door. Arthur and Guin follow, pulling weapons from holsters as they go.

Tristan snatches a radio from the cradle and holds it up. "Who's on patrol?"

"Lance and Bors," Arthur says tersely.

"Lancelot, Bors, what's happening?" Tristan keeps running, out the door and into the yard, looking frantically around. His mind races: Galahad is out doing chores with Dagonet.

He sees a familiar panic on Arthur and Guin's faces before Lancelot's voice comes over the channel. "False alarm. From the looks of things, squirrel chewed through the insulation on the wire out here at the back corner of the orchard."

"Check the perimeters even so. I'll take the south side."

"We'll meet you in the Southeast corner," comes Dagonet's voice over the radio.

Tristan resists asking if Galahad is all right. He just hurries to clear his section of fence.

He sweeps thoroughly and quickly around the perimeter. Everything looks intact, and there's no sign of movement, but he keeps his bow in his hand regardless. Soon enough, he meets the others at the far wall.

"Gal," he breathes, spotting his boy shadowing Dagonet.

He gives Tristan his half-shy smile. It has been some weeks since their first desperate tryst, and things have been going... well. He's finally starting to grow some hair back in. He still hasn't regained any memories, though his sweet voice reading poetry from the book they recovered is a gift to them both.

A small, violently suppressed part of Tristan is selfishly glad. He has dreams sometimes of Galahad remembering his old life, and leaving. He's not sure what he would do. At this point, he might ask to go with him. Perhaps it's something he should consider. He thinks Galahad might say yes, even if he does remember.

Now, he puts his arm around him as they idle around the perimeter fence, all calming slightly in the wake of momentary panic. Dagonet radios to let the others know it's all clear. Bors replies that he and Lancelot have Arthur and Guin in sight and just need a few more minutes.

"Copy that." Dagonet sighs. He scrubs a hand over his head, and he and Tristan exchange a glance.

"We really ought to do a couple of drills about breaches," Tristan offers.

"Yeah. It's been a while." Neither of them look at Galahad, though Tristan has no doubt that he's been well-trained. He did it himself, after all.

"Tomorrow? We'll float it to Arthur tonight."

"Agreed," Dagonet nods.

They agree to walk together to rotate their shifts. Everyone else doubles up for the rest of the night. Tristan can't help but feel leery about their false alarm.

When he and Galahad are both off-duty, they crowd into bed together, touching as much as they can. Galahad smells, as ever, of sunshine and sweet hay. Tristan buries his face in his curls and clutches him.

"My love," he whispers.

"What is it?" Galahad's voice is soft and easy.

"You must know...that nothing is more important to me than being with you."

Galahad's eyebrows quirk, but he's smiling a bit. "Well, that's good, because I feel the same."

Tristan has to echo the smile. "Nothing," he says again.

Galahad touches his ribs, expression turning concerned. "What's wrong?"

"I just want you to know...If you ever wish to leave here..."

Galahad frowns. "But I don't, Tris."

"I know but - if ever - if ever anyone came for you..."

" _Tristan_. I am not leaving you."

"But what if you remember-?"

"Just because I remember my past, it doesn't mean I'd forget you," Galahad whispers, pressing their cheeks together.

Tristan sighs. "Oh, pup."

"I promise you," Galahad tells him. Then he kisses him, as if to seal it. Tristan wraps his arms around him. He doesn't know what he'd do without Galahad in his life.

He rolls on top of Tristan now, humming and warm and endlessly smiling. He doesn't seem disturbed by the false alarm in the slightest. But Tristan supposes he hasn't seen the genuine breaches before.

He kisses his temple. Galahad nuzzles at him. "I love you," he whispers.

Tristan sighs, smiling. "I love you too."

It's everything, really. Galahad kisses him again, this time purposeful. Tristan sighs and pulls him closer.

"What do you want, pup?"

"Anything I can have," Galahad grins. He noses at Tristan beseechingly.

"Mm," Tristan hums. "You may have whatever you like."

"Then I want everything." He smiles wider still.

Tristan touches the curve of his lips with a gentle finger. "I want you inside me," he whispers.

Galahad bites his lip, eyes bright. "Oh! I want that too," he replies.

Tristan laughs and cups his cheeks. "Then take it, pup."

Galahad starts to push his undershirt up with intent. He leaves little kisses across his ribs, cool lips on warm skin. Tristan watches him with adoration. He's so sweetly greedy. Keen to give, and to please. He wants Tristan's reactions, and Tristan is happy to give them to him. Especially for the price of Galahad's tongue delicately drawing down low on his belly as his hands tug at his shorts.

"Ohh," he whispers, overcome.

Galahad chuckles against his skin. "I like the sound of that, Tris."

"Keep going then."

And oh, he does, easing Tristan's clothes off eagerly. He kisses at the rising curve of his cock, hands smoothing over his bare hips. Tristan just watches his face with an ever-present wonder. He can't believe, at the end of the world, he found him.

He sighs with utter want as Galahad takes him in his mouth, urging his thighs apart so he can press with slick fingertips. He's so gentle, thorough and dedicated. Everything Tristan's taught him to be, he thinks dizzily. Though he thinks it might have already been in him.

They might never know. It's both tantalizing and frustrating. That just about sums Galahad up.

He sighs again as long slim fingers slip inside him and twist. Galahad dips his head to lick at the seam between his thighs, fingers gently pressing deeper, searching. Tristan moans and lifts his hips.

"Gal- Gal, please love-"

Galahad licks again, twisting knuckles deep inside, against the sensitive parts of him. Tristan arches, shivering under the attention. It's perfect, and he craves even more.

"Galahad," he demands now.

"Are you ready?" his pup murmurs.

"You know I am."

"Good." Galahad pushes himself up and strips hastily. Their skin rides smooth and slick as he grinds their hips, and then he shifts to guide himself between Tristan's thighs. "Ready?"

Tristan pulls his knees up to his chest, eyes soft. "Of course."

Galahad leans in to kiss him as he presses in. He feels thick, and hot, and so hard. Enough to take Tristan's breath away.

"Fuck," he grits, fastening his fingers into Galahad's hair. He holds Galahad's face close, stealing kisses between breaths. All the while, Galahad slides deeper, and then draws back.

His thrusts are tender and slow and so deep. Tristan barely lets him get a scant inch away, panting softly into his mouth. Galahad presses eagerly against him, keeping him folded nearly in two as he thrusts.

Tristan's toes curl. "Oh _fuuck_ -"

He's so deep. It's exactly what he'd craved. He wordlessly begs for more.

Galahad kisses down his throat, fucking him steadily. His hands cup the sides of his jaw, so tender it makes Tristan's heart pound. He clutches his boy's shoulders and lets him have his way. It's entirely perfect. He lets his head fall back, luxuriating. He's trying to keep quiet but it's nearly impossible. Their housemates will simply have to deal with it. He's endured plenty of their own antics. His moan is still soft, but heartfelt.

In turn, Galahad is breathing hard and rough against his jaw, hips rolling quicker. He's getting close, Tristan can tell even through the haze of his own lust. He strokes into his curls and tugs gently to slow him. Galahad makes a weak little noise and tips his head back.

"You feel amazing," he breathes.

"Fuck, Tris, I - can't stop-"

"Go slow," Tristan coaxes, "please-"

Galahad sucks in a breath. "I'll try-"

"You can do it," Tristan coos, "I don't want you to stop."

"Just want it to be good for you," Galahad murmurs.

"It's perfect, I promise."

He soothes his hands down his boy's spine. Using it as leverage to guide his pace, he pushes his face into Galahad's throat, relishing the slow grind. He knows Gal can feel his slow exhale. The shiver that ripples through him. He moans again, and Galahad echoes him.

"Tris, fuck, you're..."

"So good," Tristan offers weakly, relenting with a bit more speed to his hips.

The answering moan makes him sigh with pleasure. Galahad grinds down, increasing his pressure.

"Fuck," Tristan arches. He's growing frantic once again. "Gal, touch me-"

With a desperate noise, Galahad pulls back enough to take him in hand. He kisses Tristan's throat and keeps surging and stroking. They both gasp continuously. Tristan can feel the pressure expanding, unraveling like so much silk. Galahad's hands and hips are sure in their movements. He's completely, effortlessly undoing Tristan now. Tristan lets go of his own control.

It sings through him, choral and trembling. His own moans a low counterpoint. "Fuck, _Galahad_ -"

It washes over him in a wave of static. Galahad makes a soft, choked noise of relief. His hips grind in for one more deep thrust as his shoulders shake. And then he slumps into Tristan's arms, shivery.

Tristan strokes soothing hands over him. They're both still rocking incrementally, eking out the last few sparks. Tristan soaks in the warmth from his boy's skin.

"You're perfect," he informs him.

"Tris, I'm not. You are." Galahad is grinning lazily.

"Incorrect."

Tristan tips his chin up as his throat is gently kissed. He feels blissed out and trembly. It's been exactly what he needed to soothe him.

He lets Galahad slip away now for lazy clean up on both their parts. Then they return and Tristan welcomes him back with open arms. They settle comfortably together. Tristan thinks they've earned some laziness.

Galahad's breathing is steady, but Tristan thinks he's deep in thought. He strokes through the growing curls and waits for him to share.

"Do you ever think of us leaving together?" he whispers.

"I'm with friends here," Tristan admits. "It would be difficult to leave. But you wanting to might change that."

Galahad grows quiet once more at that. "I don't know," he murmurs. "I just think about it sometimes."

"Never hesitate to bring it up, love," Tristan murmurs.

The release of tension is tangible. "Probably being selfish," Galahad murmurs, "I care about everyone here."

"No one said you didn't, pup."

"I know but - I want you to know."

Tristan smiles down on him. "We all know."

"So you don't - you don't think I'm a shithead for saying it?"

"No, love. I understand." Tristan misses it too - the roaming. He thinks that's the itch he can see in Galahad - he woke up with a blank slate for a brain and now he's in a fishbowl. Tristan has shielded him from what he could. Maybe shielding isn't what Galahad needs now. Maybe he needs choices more. Tristan squeezes him gently. "It's safe here."

"I feel safe with you."

"You are safe." Tristan leans down to kiss him.

Galahad sweetly clings. It's everything he could want.

"Go to sleep now, pup." Tristan urges it as a soft order.

Galahad curls into him with a sigh of agreement. Sometimes there's just nothing better to do than to be together.

When they wake the next morning, they find Lance in the kitchen with Gawain, cooking eggs in an ancient pan.

"I love chickens," Galahad says.

Gawain makes a sour face. "Then you can collect the eggs next time."

"If you want. You don't like them?"

"More like the chickens don't like him," Lance laughs.

"That fucking big one goes for me every time I go in there."

"Showing you who's boss, eh Gawain?" Tristan grins.

"I guess so."

"I'll take your next animal shift," Galahad tells him, a mischievous smile on his face.

"Then I guess I'll take patrol off your hands."

"Deal," Galahad tells him, leaning in to inspect the eggs. "They look great."

"Hot food in a few minutes, have a seat," says Lance.

They sit down, Galahad looking excited at the thought of chicken duty. Tristan finds it endearing. "You'd think you were the one with the avian shadow."

Galahad gives him a lovingly harried look. He and Iseult have reached a tentative truce. She sometimes even grooms his curls. It's entirely too endearing.

Lancelot is watching the two of them like he finds them endearing too. "Stop it," Tristan grouses.

Galahad flicks a glance up at them both. Lancelot just grins wide. "But you're so cute."

"Stop harassing him, Lance," Galahad scolds gently.

"Shan't."

"I'll tell Guin," Galahad replies promptly. Everyone knows she's the stern one.

Lance still just laughs. "I have so few enjoyments, let me coax a scowl out of Tristan now and again."

Galahad snorts at that. "If that's what gets you going."

"Less of that," Lancelot warns. Albeit jokingly. Galahad just makes a face at him.

"Let's not, kids," Tristan chuckles.

"I just can't help myself," Lance shrugs.

"I know that."

Galahad leans his cheek briefly against his shoulder. "Jealousy is unbecoming, Lancelot."

Lance just snorts. "Come over here and get some eggs, lovebirds."

They go, snickering amongst themselves. Tristan pulls him into his lap at the table, just to see him laugh. Galahad just slings an arm around his neck and leans into him as they eat. Backfired a bit, that. He won't complain. It's nice to see him smiling, arguing playfully with Gawain, talking about which food they miss from Before.

He doesn't have any difficulty recalling that information, somehow. It's so strange. The mind is a mystery, Tristan tells himself. And so is Galahad. His mystery.

He kisses his shoulder at the thought. Galahad leans his cheek against Tristan's temple.

"Eat your eggs, or Gawain fought those hens for nothing."

Tristan chuckles and does just that. He's happy to.

Before they finish, Guin and Vanora come in together. They get helpings of leftover eggs and come to join them. They're chattering about something to do with house repairs. Soon, Dagonet returns from his own duties, and the table seems raucous now. They're only missing Arthur and Bors, on lookout duty.

It's a shame they can't eat together. But Tristan has always been thankful for their practicality. Besides, they get lots of opportunity to socialize, living like they do. They're a big family. The thought makes Tristan smile.

It's a good thing to have, he thinks. And he's glad they can give this to Galahad. He blooms with attention, always. And, as always, he soon turns to Tristan once more.

"What's your chore for today?"

"I'm taking over lookout in a couple of hours."

"I'll miss you," he tells him playfully.

"It's mutual, pup." He leans up for the kiss Galahad is dangling. Gets a hum against his lips in response. Tristan lets it flow through him. He can't help but grip his waist until Gawain makes a retching noise nearby.

He feels Galahad reach out without looking to swat at him. Gawain laughs. "Point taken."

"If only."

"That's as good as it's going to get, lad," Dagonet tells Gawain.

He rolls his eyes. "So it seems."

Galahad laughs at them both. Tristan holds him tighter and hides his own smile. He doesn't want to let go of him.

Later, he sees Arthur catch Guinevere by the waist in the hall as they switch shifts, and feels a kinship with his friend. Not unfamiliar, just - obvious. Guin swats him off playfully, but soon lets herself be reeled back in. Arthur picks her up and carries her off down the hall. She's giggling, kicking out. Tristan's smile hurts his face: he's grateful. Grateful they all found each other. Grateful when his own pup pulls him out the back door and lets himself be dressed in one of Tristan's best body armor vests before he goes off to do perimeter patrol.

"It's hot," he complains.

"Tristan gives him an unimpressed face.

"Do not take it off."

Galahad melts a little. "I won't."

That makes Tristan smirk a bit. "Good pup." He loves the way it makes Galahad bite his lip.

"Don't," he complains.

"But I love to praise my pup," Tristan whispers.

Galahad flushes deeply. "You're filthy."

"And?" Tristan chuckles.

"It's very distracting."

"Then go do your job," Tristan tells him with another soft laugh. A pout at that. "More praise later," he whispers.

"Better be." One more kiss, and Galahad goes to grab his bow and bike helmet. Tristan watches him go, then whistles for Iseult and heads for the lookout tower. He can spot Galahad every now and again, that way.

The leaves rustle pleasantly in the nearby trees as he climbs to the platform. Iseult flutters into the branches nearby. Tristan takes a deep breath. With his binoculars close by his side, he settles down to keep watch. The day is bright but not quiet, not with the way the wind is blowing. Distantly, the treetops over the fence shiver, the heat wavering the road. Iseult sits on the railing next to Tristan and preens.

In the distance, he hears the growl of a motorcycle engine. In the next instant, his blood runs cold. The sound of running, low snarls. A shout, and then a crackle over the radio.

"Breach!" It's Galahad. "Breach, in the fence! At least four inside!"

Iseult startles as Tristan swings onto the ladder. All of them answer in turn, a flurry of movement from the house. It's astonishing how fast they move when they need to.

He hears a shotgun blast ring through the trees; an answering whinny of shock from one of the horses: Arthur. Tristan swears, bow loose in his hand as he runs. The ground barely touches his feet. He's terrified, and he knows he needs to _not_ be. But he can't calm himself, not at the frantic note in Galahad's voice.

From all points of the property, they converge on his last known position. It's sheer fucking chaos. Galahad and Dagonet are cornered by a mob of Shamblers maybe five deep, barricaded behind the broken piece of wire fencing. Lance and Guinevere are swooping in from the west on a bike, Lance shooting fast as Guin pivots to broadside the mob. Several fall, more turn to hiss at the new threat.

Tristan can't take his eyes off Galahad. He's too close to use his bow, he and Dagonet reduced to using long branches as spears to keep the Shamblers back. Thankfully, Tristan is not. He squares up as soon as he's in range, firing shot after shot while Iseult shrieks and circles above their heads.

He sees bodies fall; hears the terrible screeching. As others arrive, the group of Shamblers splinters, both fallen and distracted by fresh prey. The peppering of gunfire comes in; the occasional defeating blast from the shotgun. All the while, Galahad is fighting away snapping jaws as him and Dagonet try to break free.

Tristan stays relatively calm until he runs out of arrows, then his vision goes a little white around the edges and he pulls his belt knife. He can see Galahad swiping with his own, teeth bared white, expression wild. And then Tristan loses sight of him completely.

Panic seizes him blindly. He can _feel_ the cry that comes out of his mouth more than he can hear it. He's running into the fray then. The mob is smaller now; they're _winning_ , but that doesn't matter if Galahad is -

" _Dag_!"

The shout cracks through the rest of the noise like a whip. Tristan's ears are ringing. He can see the creatures falling upon Galahad and Dagonet then. When his vision clears, there's only a heap of corpses at his feet. And Galahad is among them.

"No!" he growls. "Gal, no-"

He races toward him, draped face-down over Dagonet -- and that's when Tristan sees the blood.

"No," he chokes, "no -" Bruisingly tight hands clamp on his shoulders.

"Wait, Tris, they might be-"

Lance doesn't finish his sentence, but he doesn't let go either. Still, Tristan snatches himself free and runs to Galahad, hauling him over and quickly feeling for a pulse.

The breath punches out of him when he feels something thud under his gloved fingertips. "Gal," he hisses, shaking him. He can see Dagonet is starting to move, pulling himself up into a sitting position. Then Galahad coughs. Tristan wipes at the sheen of blood on his forehead. "Galahad, Gal, were you bitten-?" His voice comes out rough, and squeezed.

"I don't know, I don't know where it's from!" Galahad wheezes then, touching his chest, then gasps, fingers coming back crimson. Immediately, Tristan starts to tear at his armor. But once the leather straps slip free, his shirt is clean.

"Fuck," Tristan mutters, tossing it away and turning him this way and that, hands moving everywhere.

"I think it's mine," Dagonet mutters, touching a hand to his head. "I cracked my head against the fence post, no bites though."

"Are you sure?" says Arthur's deep voice. "Tristan! Clear them _out_ of here."

Tristan glares at him.

"They both need decon," Arthur insists.

"Fine." He helps Dagonet up, grabbing Galahad's hand and giving him a tug toward the house. "Come on."

"Take my bike," Guin calls. "Bors will take Dag."

"Thanks Guin. Come on."

He bundles Galahad onto the seat in front of him, bracketing him with his arms. The boy seems stunned still, leaning back into him. Tristan murmurs comforting nonsense into his sweaty curls as he races across the field. Galahad holds on.

Tristan and Bors both jerk the bikes to a stop in the barnyard. Bors strides over to the water pump. "Here's best," he calls to Tristan. Both of them waste no time in starting to fill buckets.

"Take off your clothes, Dag, Gal," Tristan says, as calmly as he can.

Dagonet obeys promptly; this isn't their first time through this, though it never gets easier. Galahad seems more confused, but finally Tristan yanks his trousers down and then pours a bucket of the water over him. When he's clean, and shivering, Tristan runs his hands over each exposed limb.

"You're okay?" he murmurs.

"I think so," Galahad whispers, leaning into Tristan when he wraps a spare blanket around his shoulders. Close by, Bors is doing the same for Dagonet, checking his head carefully.

"You might need stitches, lad," he rumbles.

"You think?" Dagonet snickers.

"If you had hair it wouldn't have broken the skin."

"Oh, well, sorry for not having fucking hair."

Their continued bickering fades out as Tristan focuses back on Galahad. He looks so shaken. Tristan touches his cheek.

"Galahad, are you all right-?"

"There were so many of them," he whispers.

"I know. I know. They're gone now, you're okay." He squeezes him gently. "You did exactly what you trained to do, you and Dagonet."

"He did more than that," Dagonet puts in. "He saved my fucking life."

Tristan looks at him over Galahad's curls.

"I didn't," Galahad protests.

"He did. The kid's alert, and he's quick. He noticed the loose wire even before the Shamblers came through that thicket."

Galahad sighs. "Didn't keep us from getting surrounded."

"Yeah, and then you fucking fought them off us." Dagonet crosses his arms.

"So did you."

"We were a good team, kid," Dagonet tells him.

Galahad bites his lip and nods. Tristan strokes his hair. "You're okay," he promises.

"You were so fierce," Galahad whispers.

"Of course. Have to protect you, mm?"

"You did."

"Good. I always will." Tristan eyes him thoughtfully and then sweeps him up into his arms. "Inside with you now, you could do with warming up."

Galahad doesn't struggle, just leans into Tristan's chest. They go inside, all four of them, and soon enough the others start to trickle back. Arthur and Lancelot have stayed behind to see about repairing the fence. And to burn the corpses, Tristan knows, but he doesn't mention that to Galahad. He's taken on enough for the day. He seems empty of feelings and energy as Tristan takes him to the shower. But Tristan can coax him patiently.

"You're okay," he reminds Galahad.

"I feel dirty," he whispers. "Like it's seeping through my skin."

"It's not. You're safe. Wash up for me." He turns on the water. If Gal needs direction, he'll give it.

He strips off his own clothes and gets in with him, rubbing warmth into his arms. Galahad finally meets his eyes when Tristan is in the shower with him.

"They were trying to eat us," he whispers.

"That's what they do," Tristan murmurs.

"I thought they were going to succeed."

"Pup," Tristan sighs. "It's all right to be scared."

"Good, because I was terrified."

"So was I," Tristan admits. Galahad pushes his face into his neck, and Tristan can feel him trembling. "I am tempted to never let you out of my sight again."

"No complaints," Galahad whispers.

"Noted." Tristan reaches for shampoo and starts working it through Galahad's sweaty curls. He keeps it slow and careful. Galahad doesn't move much, other than to tip his head to the other side. When he's been soaped and rinsed down, Tristan checks him again, pausing at the beginnings of a livid bruise on Galahad's arm, a familiar shape.

"You did get bitten," Tristan realizes aloud, stomach churning.

Galahad makes a choked noise. "You saw my armor, I - it didn't -"

"It didn't go through," Tristan murmurs. "It's good armor. A bite couldn't go through."

"I barely even felt it," Galahad sighs, "I'm sorry. Hurts now though."

"I'll get you a salve when you're done in here."

"I'm done, I'm done."

"Back to the room, then," Tristan says gently.

They go, both quiet. Tristan wouldn't mind checking in with his friends again, but he knows they'll understand. Besides, he's sure everyone will want to batten down the hatches. At least for a few hours. They'll drink or fuck or do whatever they can. And Arthur won't rest until he's sure they're safe.

Tristan should go and help him. He doesn't want to leave.

"Wait here," he tells Galahad. "I'll go get that salve." He thumbs his radio as he walks. "Arthur, you need any help?"

"Tris," Arthur sighs. "I've got this. But thanks."

"You're sure?"

"We're sure," Lancelot puts in.

"Copy that. Over."

He rummages a container of arnica cream out of the kitchen, and turns back to his room. Galahad has already crawled into bed. Tristan sits on the edge and tugs the covers back a little. He can see he's still a little twitchy. He takes his hand silently, linking their fingers and squeezing before smoothing on the cream.

"I've got you," he promises. "I will always have you."

"Thanks, Tris." Galahad offers him a weak smile.

"Always, pup." His voice breaks a little, on the first syllable. He wraps him up in his arms tightly. He wants to admit again how terrified he was. But he's also not sure Galahad needs to hear it. He seems so shaken. He reminds himself that this was his first real fight with the Shamblers. Easy to forget, when you're safe. Tristan wants to keep Galahad that way. Especially when his lack of safety has been more prevalent. Tristan takes a moment to just breathe him in.

"You okay?" Galahad asks.

"I will be."

"You sure?"

"As long as you are."

"I... I think I'll be okay."

"I don't want to say 'it gets easier' but - it's different, after a few attacks."

Galahad sighs. "That's sad."

"Yeah," Tristan sighs. "That's life now." He presses their foreheads together. "But so is this."

"Yeah." Galahad cups his face, sighing softly. "Yeah it is. I'd miss this most of all."

"Oh, pup." Tristan closes his eyes and squeezes him tighter. "Me too."

"You want to try sleep?"

"Let's." Sleep sounds like a necessary thing.

They huddle down under the covers. Galahad pillows his head on Tristan's chest. He still feels trembly against Tristan. Tristan hopes sleep and touch can weigh him down a bit. Still, when the trembling doesn't stop after a few minutes, he nudges him.

"C'mere. Let me help."

They get up silently, and Tristan pulls the blankets off the bed and stuffs them under it, pulling Galahad with him so they're under the frame, bundled up and protected on all sides. He pushes him the whole way back to the wall, letting his own back form another barrier.

Galahad seems to quiet then, clinging tight to his side. Tristan breathes with him until he's sure he's sleeping. He stares into the dark and listens to his sleepy sounds. Eventually he manages to join him.

When Tristan wakes with an aching back, it's dark as hell and Galahad is snuffling faintly against his chest, still asleep. Tristan stares up at the bedsprings for a moment before gently easing them both back out into the open. He'll tuck Galahad back into bed and just - sit watch. But he's stirring now, grumbling a bit.

Tristan cups his cheek. "Go back to sleep," he whispers.

"Where're you going?" Galahad whispers. "Don't go."

"I'm not, just can't sleep any more. I'll stay here." He tugs gently. "Can you come up on the bed now? Feel okay?"

Galahad nods. "I think so." But when he curls back onto the mattress he tugs Tristan with him.

"I'm not going," Tristan soothes.

"Good. I know what I want to feel," Galahad adds in a whispers.

"Is that so?"

"Yeah. Want to hear?"

"I do."

"I want you to fuck me now, Tris."

"Do you?" He wants it, undeniably. Wants to feel Galahad alive and warm and defiant. Galahad only ever has to say the word.

"Please," he murmurs.

"Then undress for me, pup."

Galahad tugs off his shorts swiftly. He doesn't do it with finesse, but he does stand still and let Tristan look at him after.

"Hello, beautiful," Tristan murmurs, reaching out to touch. He traces the lean stomach down to the cut of his hip.

Galahad brushes his knuckles against Tristan's shoulder. "Now you."

Tristan does use a bit of finesse, because Galahad deserves it and he is not nearly so young or gorgeous. Though he's sure Galahad would argue. It's all right, he doesn't need to hear it. He knows. Then he sits on the bed and holds out his hands.

Eyes big and bright, Galahad goes. "This is my favorite thing," he whispers.

"Oh yeah?"

"Definitely, Tris. You're perfect."

"You're not far off yourself." Tristan looks him over again, hands skimming.

"Glad you think so," Galahad murmurs. He looks soft, and loving.

Tristan immediately coaxes him into his lap. He turns his face up and presses their cheeks together. "I love you, boy."

"Tris. I'm yours," Galahad murmurs.

"I know you are." He breathes out. "And I'll show you."

"Come on then." His fingers tangle into Tristan's braids and tug.

Tristan kisses him deeply. It's like a drug, he can never get enough. Galahad sucks softly at his tongue; bites at his upper lip gently. It's a tease, just like the fingers in his hair. Tristan cups his hips with a sigh. He's so primed for touch, his body settling into a rhythm of desire.

Galahad seems to mimic it instinctively. They're well matched as ever. A perfect pair. Fated and thankful for it. Tristan knows he is. He hauls him bodily closer now and grips at his warm skin. He smells tantalizing, and Tristan runs his tongue up the side of his neck at the thought. Feels him shiver against him.

"You're such a good boy," he tells him. "Tell me what you want."

"Tristan," Galahad whines. He wriggles a little, maybe in illustration. "I want you to fuck me, I already _said_..."

"Mm. I will."

Galahad whines, clutching at him. Tristan swiftly rolls them over.

"Pup," he sighs, "I want your mouth..."

Galahad's hands go frantic trying to pull him up. "Yes, yes, yes."

He grasps at Tristan's ass and thighs, trying to pull him in. Tristan has to grip a handful of his curls to slow him. Galahad just looks up with big needy blue eyes.

"Please, Tris-"

"Open up," Tristan says softly.

Galahad does. Tristan traces over his pink lower lip, watches Galahad touch his tongue to the head of his cock where he's guided himself against it. Tristan slowly pushes his length inside.

Knelt over the boy's chest on the bed, watching him crane up to taste more of him, he feels humblingly normal. Gal's eyes are big and bright. He loves this. His hands are tight on Tristan's thighs, and his mouth is incredibly hot, his tongue soft. He's so _alive_. And he moans softly when Tristan begins to thrust. Hands tightening, eyes closing, he trusts Tristan so obviously.

Tristan murmurs his name, meets his gaze. "Deeper," he murmurs.

Galahad sighs happily and opens up. He's so perfectly yielding, and Tristan holds back a groan, cupping his jaw gently as he presses deeper.

"Gal, _fuuuck_."

It's hard not to crumple forward completely, but he doesn't - he wants to watch. Tristan braces a hand against the wall to steady himself, breathing hard as he fucks slowly into the back of Galahad's throat. Every inch is delicious.

His boy seems to think so too, humming eagerly around him. Tristan has to catch his breath.

"God, fuck." He touches his curls. "You're so beautiful."

He closes his eyes for a second, overwhelmed. It goes through him like a shock.

"Galahad," he breathes. "Lovely boy, don't make me come."

He watches him ease back with a gasp. His lips are flushed crimson. "Tris," he gasps.

"You want me in you now?" Tristan murmurs.

"Yes, fuck, ten minutes ago."

He whines and tries to sit up, but Tristan holds him down. "Pull your knees up for me," he instructs softly.

"Fuck," Galahad breathes, and does as he's bid.

Tristan watches warmly. He looks stunning, as ever. He traces his hands down soft pale thighs. "Pretty boy," he murmurs. "Hold still, just like that."

Galahad does, thighs shaking, fingers pressing into the undersides of his knees. Tristan stretches for lube.

"Don't make me wait, okay?" Galahad whispers.

"No, baby, no," he murmurs.

He slicks up quickly. With shaking hands he guides himself into position, looking up at Galahad as he presses slowly in. It's enough to steal his breath, just feeling the way Galahad trembles at the feeling. He trembles but holds steady, eyes big and needy.

"Good boy," Tristan praises, bracing his hands on Galahad's chest as he slides deeper. He can feel his deep breaths and the vibration of his groan. The draw of his body is irresistible then. Tristan pushes forward until he bottoms out, and then he pulls back and back in with one smooth roll of his hips.

They both groan this time. "Oh- Tris-" Galahad slips a hand up to his shoulder.

Tristan leans down for a kiss. "That's it, baby."

He rubs their cheeks together, flexing his hips gently a few times. He folds down against Galahad, so his thighs are trapped between their chests, and revels in the gasping moan that escapes him. Revels in everything. The hot, slick clasp of him, and his sheer, undeniable aliveness. The way he rocks his hips up greedily. Pleads with Tristan's name over and over again.

Tristan kisses it off his lips, his own breath coming quick and shallow. He snaps his hips quicker now, surging forward with his eyes fixed on his boy. It feels so good he's nearly too loud. He holds it back, only gasping Galahad's name. The heat is overwhelming; the closeness. He breathes through it.

Galahad pleads, "Tris, baby, I can't - please, please touch me."

"What can't you do, gorgeous?"

"I can't concentrate, not when we're like this."

"Can't concentrate on what?" Tristan grins

"My - Tris - my cock, Tristan!" He pants through it.

"Not yet," Tristan whispers, to hear him whine. He loves watching the flush spread across his cheeks.

"Tris-! Why?" He nuzzles at him, beseeching. "Please, baby," he whispers.

With a hum, Tristan reaches down between them to curl a hand around him. His groan is gratifying.

"Tris, Tris, Tris-"

Tristan pounds into him helplessly, in time. "Fuck," he breathes into Galahad's shoulder, " _Fuck_ \- Fuck," he whispers helplessly as he feels Galahad clench. He strokes him quickly to chase it.

They both end up shuddering together, Galahad's nails biting in. He seems overwhelmed, gladly so. Tristan kisses his eyelids. "Good boy," he whispers. "Good boy...I love being inside you."

"I love you," Galahad whines. He sinks his fingers into Tristan's braids to bring his face closer.

They're moving faster now, every motion resulting in a sharp slap of skin. Tristan groans, giving in to Galahad's neediness. "Fuck, fuck, fuck." He grinds in with a gasp.

Galahad bares his teeth on a groan. Tristan kisses down his neck. He takes him in hand and strokes with purpose now, fast and slick. He lets himself sink into the sound and feel of Galahad. And he really does feel incredible.

"I love you," he whispers in his ear.

Galahad gratefully clutches at him. "Tris, Tristan -" his voice breaks.

"What is it, boy?"

But Galahad only moans. Tristan thinks he's close. He's so close himself. He feels so _good_. Finally he lets himself go. He's slamming harder, chasing the surge of heat in him, nipping at his throat with avid little teeth. And he feels Galahad pulse in his hand; feels his groan, and his body tighten like they're meant to be one.

His breath catches. His own hips kick in hard. "Fuck," he groans, " _fuck_..."

He shakes through his own toe-curling release, Galahad gripping his hair the entire time. He holds Tristan down until he has no choice but to press with his full body weight.

"Gal, fuck..." he slurs into his skin. "Isn't it too much?"

"Never," Galahad murmurs. He kisses under Tristan's eye, the tattoo there. His knees squeeze at Tristan's flanks.

Tristan closes his eyes. "Love this," he whispers.

"It's yours forever, Tris."

"I thought for a second, earlier-"

"Me too," Galahad whispers.

Tristan sighs and clutches him. "Not today," he murmurs. "Not ever, if I can help it."

"Same," Galahad sighs. He kisses him, and they ease slowly apart. Tristan finds himself suddenly wrung out. He wants to sleep a thousand years again. As long as Galahad is by his side.

They both stretch out in the bed now. Galahad presses to him like a second skin. He feels soft and warm and reassuringly solid. That thousand years feels doable like this. Tristan curls and arm around him and kisses his shoulder.

Tristan wakes with a warm hand on his shoulder, gently nudging him.

"Want to eat?" Galahad whispers.

"Smells good," Tristan murmurs, pushing himself up. "Were you already out there?" He slept right through it, almost unheard of for him.

"I went to give Van a hand."

"Who's on patrol?" Tristan pushes himself up, glancing about the room for his clothing.

"No one - or no one will be. They want to put the electric on for a few hours."

They try not to run the generator for the fence too often - it takes too much precious gasoline - but there are exceptions. Tonight appears to be one.

"Arthur just wanted us all to get some rest," Galahad adds.

"I feel like I already got some," Tristan points out, though he imagines it wasn't really long.

"I'm glad to hear it."

Galahad looks a bit more rested as well. Tristan still has to cup his face and look him over. Galahad allows it, eyes soft.

"I don't want to ever let you go again," Tristan admits.

"Fine," Galahad says. His sigh only pretends to be long-suffering. He's smiling though. "Get dressed, there's food."

"Getting," Tristan promises. He pulls on jeans and a sweater. Then he follows Galahad down to the kitchen.

They've started setting dishes out on the long table already. Tristan immediately picks up silverware to help. Vanora gives him a smile over her shoulder.

"Hey you," she murmurs.

"Hi, how's Dag?"

"He's all right. On the couch in the front room," she tells him. "Want to go wake him?"

"Yeah, I will." Tristan hands the silverware over to Gal and slips into the short hallway.

He finds Dagonet sprawled on the sofa, snoring softly. Fondness surges over him.

"Dag," he murmurs, sitting on the coffee table. He touches his shoulder. "Dag," he repeats.

"Mm?" He stirs a little.

"Dinner's ready. How do you feel?"

"Not bad," Dag says easily, sitting up. "How's your boy?"

"He was shaken up. I did what I could," Tristan murmurs.

"He was brave," Dagonet tells him. He slips his feet into his boots, looks up at Tristan. "You're really happy with him, aren't you?"

"I... yeah. I didn't know I could love the way I love him." He glances automatically back toward the kitchen.

Dagonet smiles at him softly. "That sounds good, Tris."

"I think so." Tristan smiles. "Thanks for looking out for him out there. And all of us."

Dagonet reaches out and squeezes his shoulder. "We're family."

"We are." Tristan smiles at him, fighting the wave of emotion in the back of his throat. "I'm glad you're okay."

"We all know the risks of living here," Dagonet shrugs. "I think the rewards are better."

"You're right." Tristan squeezes his shoulder. "Now. You gonna come get some dinner?"

"Aye, of course. Otherwise Gawain will eat it all." Dagonet winks.

"First come first served." Tristan nudges him, and they both get up with twin groans of stiffness. "Too old for this," Tristan mutters.

"You and me both, bud." He winks at Tristan. "Staying up nights ain't helping you."

A snort at that. "I disagree." He eyes Dagonet. "Maybe you ought to stay up nights too."

"How do you know I don't?"

"Do you?" Tristan can't resist asking.

Dagonet gives him the side eye. "Gossipy tonight?"

"Just curious." He gestures Dagonet toward the kitchen. "If you're not, there's no time like the present to start."

"Shut up, you." But Dag looks thoughtful. Tristan is clearly going soft in his advancing years.

They part ways at the door and go to the table, where the others have all arrived for dinner. Arthur, Lance, and Guinevere at the end, Bors waiting for Vanora, who's carrying in the last two dishes with Galahad. Gawain with a suspiciously empty chair between him and Guinevere.

Dagonet shoots Tristan a look, and then goes to occupy it. Tristan holds back a smirk. He sits down, and soon Galahad drops into the chair beside him and slides him a plate.

They're all talking at once, as usual. It's a reassuring cacophony; proof of their living breath. It only stops when Arthur raises a hand.

"My friends. My family." He raises his glass, filled with the result of some of Dagonet's more successful attempts at beer making. "Today's incident was the kind we fear the most, but it was also the kind we train for and plan for every day. And today, we prevailed."

"Thanks to Galahad and Dagonet!" Vanora adds, raising her cup.

"Especially Galahad," Dagonet murmurs. "And the rest of you who came."

"Don't say that," Galahad shakes his head.

"We will, and you can't stop us," Lancelot replies, with a glance at Tristan. He knows he's smiling.

"You can't stop us," he whispers into Galahad's ear.

Galahad turns and tugs gently on a braid. "Hush, old man."

"Mm, that won't work." Tristan meets Arthur's eyes over Galahad's shoulder. He's smiling slightly.

"Today we prevailed," he repeats. "Tonight, we celebrate. And tomorrow, we live."

"Tomorrow we live!" Tristan echoes, and the rest follow suit, glasses clacking.

Tristan leans in to Galahad for a kiss instead of a sip. Feeling his laugh against his lips is all the buzz he needs. It's everything he needs, and it always will be. Even at the end of the world. And as far beyond as it will take them.

He has his family, and Galahad. They'll take care of one another.


End file.
